Ancient History

Dawn Potter

Baby forgets the rain.

Forgets how the lamplight

spilled onto his page of homework.

He forgets the scent of dust,

that old wet dog in the chair,

that radio spitting its crackle of news.

Forgets the shouting in the kitchen,

the way her voice rose, the way

her plate slapped down on the counter.

He forgets the slam of the window,

the cigarette ash drifting,

the way her eyes tracked him

when he dropped his pencil on the floor

Forgets her skinny fingers,

their filthy sharp nails,

her stare like a chain

yanking him underwater.

Forgets how bad she smelled.

All he recollects

is how she crashed back and forth,:

charging from burner to sink to burner—

scald slice boil scald slice boil scald slice boil—

her flailing arms bloody with tomatoes.

And Baby still sees those seven hot jars, 

mashed vegetable flesh straining against the glass:

            how they hissed

as she yanked each from the canner

and flung them screaming,

            one after one after one,

out the yawing front door.

[poem previously appeared in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall]