Progress Report
Oni Buchanan
Your children are rifling through
your furniture and belongings,
affixing their names
with nametag labels. They take turns
like you taught them, but they
hate each other like you taught them.
With a stick, your children hit
the porch rungs to find out
which are rotten, which
are filled with insect eggs. The bloated
strains of wood. Your children pull
skunkweed by the pond. A sick bat hangs
disoriented during daylight, clutching
a low patch of bark. Your children
nailed a few unstable planks
into a tree trunk and got no farther
in the construction of their house.
They found a shred of wet, frayed rope
at the perimeter of the cemetery.
They heaved the rotting jack-o-lanterns
over the fence, the dented faces softly
puckering, interior mold spilling
outward from the toothy mouth.
Your children dreamt
of the strawberry festival but
when it came around, it was a mere
collection of pies. Your children
must be broken; they are limping
in circles, tracing a brown ring
in the brittle zoysia grass, the nearby
woodpile filled with snakes and spiders.
They found their lost teeth
hidden in a tennis trophy. They rifled
through your drawer for money.
They wove potholders on a plastic frame.
Your children are hoarding the game-pieces
and fighting over the Rummikub. They
weigh themselves on a broken scale
and scrape away their proper portions.
Your children are filling in blanks
for nouns and blanks for verbs. They turn
specific images to X
in a grid of blocks representing
objects spotted. Your children
are recording all the facts in a secret
language of hand-drawn symbols.
They scribble furiously in diaries.
In the margins of the hymnal,
they number the stanzas of the god-fearing
lyric. They interfere with letters
in the bulletin of worship. Your children
crush poisonous berries with sticks
and trace the pulpy juice on the cement.
They stain their knees and pinafores.
They set out three buckets in the rain
to measure rainfall from the hill, rainfall
from the yard, rainfall from the woods.
They pull the gutted hunter's seat
up from the matted leaves
and scrub it in a yellow tub of water, as clean
as it can get. Your children want
a canopy bed. They are pounding their heads
against the wall to make themselves
unconscious. The stretched canvas hangings
tilt askew or clatter from their
nails. To no avail. Your children punch out
the highest bedroom window screen
and let it fall. They know how to punch.
They know how to let a thing
tilt away backwards and impale
itself on branches. They hook the safety grip
over the sill and throw the ladder out.
A rehearsal for the fire. An exit strategy
to clear the briars. Your children
have wormed beneath the tripwire
and set foot into the street. They're racing
past the carpenter bees. Past the
blue garden globe, past the trampoline
and the feral cat. Past the donkey
in his tiny field. Past the bus bully
and his frothing dogs snapping from their
backyard cage. Past the honey locust tree
with its fallen twisted scythes. Past
the lattice tower trashed with satellites
like deaf ear-buds growing from the
rotting head. Shelf fungi jutting
from the screwed-in angles. The words go in
and curve around the disc, slip out again.
your furniture and belongings,
affixing their names
with nametag labels. They take turns
like you taught them, but they
hate each other like you taught them.
With a stick, your children hit
the porch rungs to find out
which are rotten, which
are filled with insect eggs. The bloated
strains of wood. Your children pull
skunkweed by the pond. A sick bat hangs
disoriented during daylight, clutching
a low patch of bark. Your children
nailed a few unstable planks
into a tree trunk and got no farther
in the construction of their house.
They found a shred of wet, frayed rope
at the perimeter of the cemetery.
They heaved the rotting jack-o-lanterns
over the fence, the dented faces softly
puckering, interior mold spilling
outward from the toothy mouth.
Your children dreamt
of the strawberry festival but
when it came around, it was a mere
collection of pies. Your children
must be broken; they are limping
in circles, tracing a brown ring
in the brittle zoysia grass, the nearby
woodpile filled with snakes and spiders.
They found their lost teeth
hidden in a tennis trophy. They rifled
through your drawer for money.
They wove potholders on a plastic frame.
Your children are hoarding the game-pieces
and fighting over the Rummikub. They
weigh themselves on a broken scale
and scrape away their proper portions.
Your children are filling in blanks
for nouns and blanks for verbs. They turn
specific images to X
in a grid of blocks representing
objects spotted. Your children
are recording all the facts in a secret
language of hand-drawn symbols.
They scribble furiously in diaries.
In the margins of the hymnal,
they number the stanzas of the god-fearing
lyric. They interfere with letters
in the bulletin of worship. Your children
crush poisonous berries with sticks
and trace the pulpy juice on the cement.
They stain their knees and pinafores.
They set out three buckets in the rain
to measure rainfall from the hill, rainfall
from the yard, rainfall from the woods.
They pull the gutted hunter's seat
up from the matted leaves
and scrub it in a yellow tub of water, as clean
as it can get. Your children want
a canopy bed. They are pounding their heads
against the wall to make themselves
unconscious. The stretched canvas hangings
tilt askew or clatter from their
nails. To no avail. Your children punch out
the highest bedroom window screen
and let it fall. They know how to punch.
They know how to let a thing
tilt away backwards and impale
itself on branches. They hook the safety grip
over the sill and throw the ladder out.
A rehearsal for the fire. An exit strategy
to clear the briars. Your children
have wormed beneath the tripwire
and set foot into the street. They're racing
past the carpenter bees. Past the
blue garden globe, past the trampoline
and the feral cat. Past the donkey
in his tiny field. Past the bus bully
and his frothing dogs snapping from their
backyard cage. Past the honey locust tree
with its fallen twisted scythes. Past
the lattice tower trashed with satellites
like deaf ear-buds growing from the
rotting head. Shelf fungi jutting
from the screwed-in angles. The words go in
and curve around the disc, slip out again.