ROBERT AVILES

Your mother’s third husband once shot 

a harpoon at your head when you were 

fourteen blow out the candles Robert it’s 

your birthday once I was a source of 

imitation now you make housecalls to evict

squatters when they swore you into the Marines

the sergeant asked you to please refrain 

from laughing Robert we once broke into 

the bookmobile and drank and played

our guitars to rattle the windows smoked

the cheapest pot known to humankind

and jointly worshipped Tomi Kaye 

Carpenter you wanted me to protect

you from the grand uncertainty of life 

Robert the teachers forgot your name

but I remember your estranged father 

was congenial an architect your mother 

sold Ernest & Julio Gallo wine your cherry 

red bass and hatred of sports and the way 

you called me after your wife died young 

of pneumonia and I didn't know what to say 

you didn't seem to want comfort you spoke 

of retiring early and becoming a gentleman 

farmer you repaired vintage motorcycles

an attempt to prove that toughness I knew 

you entirely lacked in childhood you wouldn't

read Freud but believe me when I tell you

happiness is a desire for revenge we watched 

Repo Man and read comics planning our famous 

band isn't it wrong how these bodies isolate

all you wanted from your mother was a mother 

a fast exit from high school a single explanation 

for geometry when we met years later you said 

you always expected more from me Robert

SUNDAY VISITS

She just died no one knows why

everything hurts get me a slice

of cake save your money doctors

know nothing don't tell your father

I never voted for Nixon every day

I worry what would mother think

the man across the hall talks too much

if I lie down I feel better I never

watch television there's a file beside

the bed marked funeral mother believed

in heaven the letters she wrote good-bye

for now I'm glad you came I never hear

from Ginny Schlomann she must be

mad visit your father when I'm gone

no I don't need anything what if he dies

what if I die they never get the weather right

are there steps I can't go when you

get old don't get old why won't anyone

listen to me when I say it's too hot

too breezy these machines keep calling

I'm alright it's just my insides they

never serve the food we want don't

complain attitude is everything she

always said well I want to complain

I'm complaining now your father

never listened I'm finished with birthdays

you'll see I'm glad you came tell me

no one tells me I played right field

oh well and the french horn bring me

a jar of beach plum jam the bugs

nearly ate us alive your father said

nothing and now I want you to listen

Keith Ekiss is a Jones Lecturer in Creative Writing at Stanford University. He is the author of Pima Road Notebook (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2010) and translator of two works by the Costa Rican poet Eunice Odio, Territory of Dawn: The Selected Poems of Eunice Odio (The Bitter Oleander Press, 2016) and The Fire’s Journey, an epic poem in four volumes (Tavern Books, 2019). He is the past recipient of scholarships and residencies from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Squaw Valley Writers’ Conference, Millay Colony for the Arts, Santa Fe Art Institute, and the Petrified Forest National Park.