1973
There were feet that were naked and dirty all summer long
and Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 on the kitchen radio.
In the river there was arsenic and lead from the factory
and there were four girls with long shiny hair
who carried brand new patent leather purses every Easter.
Sometimes there was an uncle.
Sometimes my breath catches in my throat and won’t let go.
The only real danger in this world is sleeping
though it seems as if the humidifier is breathing along with us. Can you feel it?
Summers were rainy and humid and coffee cups were slammed
against the kitchen counter until they broke into violent, angry pieces.
When I press my ear to the ground I hear conversations I wish I hadn’t.
There was an uncle:
He put his tongue in my mouth and his hand under my shirt which read:
Sock it to me
Sock it to me
Sock it to me
Sock it to me
Sock it to me
Sock it to me
Sock it to me
because it was 1973
but I didn’t mean for it to be taken literally.
I fear, not the end, but the endless stream of beginnings.
There’s a spider living in our bedroom
who reaches his leg out from behind the dresser
every time I walk into the room.
(I’m not making this up.)
Laura Falsetti is a dentist who lives and works south of Seattle. She is also an emerging poet with work in Cider Press Review, Cirque, the anthology WA129: Poets of Washington, and other literary journals. Her interests include hiking, Washington red blends, and being the Mother of Cats.
