There is a road behind
the eyes and the long-suffering
smile, long and winding,
but leading nowhere.
It starts from the path
behind this house,
one that runs into
the woods, disappearing into
an imagined horizon.
Mother sits in front
of the television everyday,
afloat in a dress too large
for her body, fanning herself
with a magazine, feigning contentment.
And father moves sadly about
the living room, arranging,
re-arranging books on the shelves,
sometimes remembering to take one of them
down, even pretending to read it.
None of them remember the picture
on the wall, the one taken at their
wedding, where they stood before a church,
smiling weakly, resigned to the
cheap gown and the undersized tuxedo,
ensnaring both their bodies.
There is a road behind this house.
I can see it from my bedroom window,
disappearing into the trees,
leading nowhere.
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