The Kitchen Counter on a Tuesday Night

A dark glass of soda, dusted with carbonation,
ice cubes melted to ghosts.

The tangle of car keys, a catbitten phone charger,
glasses folded like a sleeping insect.

Several envelopes like ruffled feathers,
a few scribbled on, return to sender.

Two gray laptops, one plugged in,
the pinpoint of orange light on its side.

A wrinkled bag of cat food pebbles,
a school lunch bag holding smeared snack packages.

A green notebook, a tattered file folder,
a calculator with worn keys missing its cover.

A car tax notice, some W-2 forms,
a purple marker and a mechanical pencil

A school worksheet scrawled with n’s written backwards,
a math exam, 18/20.

The heat switches on; just turn off the light—
we’ll clean it up tomorrow.

Inheritance

I wait until you're asleep,

then I go into your bedroom with a screwdriver.

While you breathe deep, I find the screw teeth

behind your ears, under your shoulder blades,

the heel of each foot, the roof of your mouth.

In the gray of the room I pry the edges apart

and set your loose, rattling panel to the side,

exposing your circuitry.

In the clockwork of your living,

the soft clatter of each ticking part,

I put my fingers into the edges,

looking for a symbol, a logo, a brand name.

I inspect your chess-piece molars, their growth pattern,

the ball of your shoulders, your ankle pins,

the flywheels in your knees, each spinal gear.

I fiddle with the marbles of your eyes,

the flicker of paint inside—

are they clear without lenses?

I check all these nervous devices

Looking for my name. Are these the narrow heart valves

of your great-grandfather, your grandma's weak kidneys,

the oven-black lungs of my father?

In the rubber tread of your brain,

I feel for our family's signature addiction,

the sticking throttle of obsession.

In the morning, back in one piece,

I remind you to eat a few more greens.