Dead air on the phone
stretched. Mom
barely said goodbye
when she said anything,
hung up. I envisioned crockery’s
muffled clank, dropped,
hopefully just rattle, rest.
Mom is cup and saucer—cracks lengthen
in body, mind, deepen
past enamel into clay. She’d
warned months ago she was chipping, as
though Dad was keeping
one eye on her, the other
on a broom, a dustpan. Their
biggest fight, she
broke a complete dish set, pitched
fast at the brick wall of Dad’s
obstinacy. The bricks
in his nerve must’ve
loosened: he drove
off, stayed all afternoon
out of range. Toward L.A.,
I pass the Miramar Melmac
sign, think of her—
the flowered dishware
she purchased as replacements;
my wish she were
thermoset plastic. She was more
like that sign— flaking paint,
empty light sockets,
patches of bare metal—
Currently an MFA Writing candidate at California State University, Long Beach, Jonathan Yungkans is a Los Angeles-native poet, writer and photographer with an intense love for the sea and local history. His works have appeared in Lime Hawk, Twisted Vine Literary Journal, West Texas Literary Review and other publications. His poetry chapbook, Colors the Thorns Draw, was published by Desert Willow Press in August 2018.
Photographer’s Note: The dishes against the brick wall. I understand that. Here is my brick wall photo.