By Drew Attana
I learned to listen for the low squeak
of cheese curds between my teeth,
that noise matching the satisfaction
of new flavor and even newer family,
and you and I sat somewhere inside
the expanse of porch and wilderness
watching locally packed bratwursts
sizzle and burst on the grill, letting
your mom talk about men and women
and about what she needed to do next
until both night and he came home —
her man — smelling of dirt and smoke,
and we watched him crack a High Life,
then lug a box of illegal fireworks up
from the basement and insist we all aim
Roman Candles at the crawling tree-line,
the edge of this world guarded by strings
of bird houses and a crumbling faux deer,
the same beast used for target practice,
that one I mistook for flesh and blood.
Copyright Attana 2016