Laredo,1945 Poem by David Watts

Laredo,1945

Mums is sleeping.
All the sentences she diagrammed
are falling out of her mouth:

the impossible one
from "'Twas the Night
Before Christmas" even she

wasn't sure about.
It is summer.
South Texas.Afternoon.

Heat rises
off the red clay
like bad breath.

Only the window is cool.
The fan, relentless,
lifts her lacy collar

as it strokes the room.
I am five years old.
Already her goiter

is visible to me
snapped to her neck
like a turtle.

Pops is sleeping
in the tool
shed, his nails sorted

in fruit jars, nailed
to the two-by-two, army knife
strung to a belt loop.

They are snoring,
singing to each other
from their places.