Unleavened, and: W, and: Yardwork

Abstract

Unleavened, and: W, and: Yardwork Matthew Gavin Frank (bio) Unleavened The matzo brei sticks to the skilletbecause my mother has spilledthe sugar. The spatula is nowinadequate, and so are her hands.Two cubes of butter can't save usanymore, and the trout on the sideof the sugar bowl seem aghast,out of water, only pretendingto be as stoic as the ships thatfish for them. They, too, mustbe watching the news. We eat itin front of the television,my younger sister freshlyunemployed, my mother lyingabout how she likes the burntpieces best. She movesthe lumps of wet dough aroundher plate with her fork. I thinkshe thinks she's writing her name.She does this—with silverware,house keys, her finger signingagain and again my father's deathcertificate dreamily in the air.Months ago, after seeing picturesof his enlarged heart, she vowedto stop preparing pancakes, sworeoff yeast. Now, when my mothersleeps, she sees me and my sister [End Page 33] building a long fence in the snowto keep in the horses (we neverhad horses) because they can'tsuppress their jumping. Ourfaces are red, our hands are red,we are rendered to our listsof cold ingredients. The spruce rockover us, and the only crow leftis beyond solitude, blindedby the breaths of the horseswhich surge to meet it. Webuild the fence, she says,and my sister cries as she worksher hammer, and as my motherspeaks. We eat through it,and the matzo is dense becauseit has to be, and on the television,agents dislocate children from theirparents at the border. So manypipe dreams forsaking their natures.There is little left inside usthat will compel us to rise. My sisterrefills her prescription. The horses,my mother says, are so beautifulthis year. W The gush of the snailis the gathering of the shell,some tight spiral beliesthe soft thing dyinginside of it. Again,the weather is oozy [End Page 34] and indistinct, hissingat us like some angryduped audience. The booingof the thunderstormon top of us, the missionarydroplets, and dropletsof light. Again, we arepinned down in Illinois,pillaging such prettychandeliers from the brokenwindows of the boutiques.You are so reckless withthe electricity makingflytraps of your hair. Eventhe wind here is toothy,beaded with sugary poisonand a monogrammedsaltshaker. In its gustingis some failed attemptto announce its own name,arrested surprised-mouthedgumming a fat letter that's stolenits identity from another.In your plastic backyardswimming pool, no oneis ready to open their eyesto identify me underwater: this copse of rust,this aperture of infinitedehydration. To myasshole, the shadowsof the paramedics arrivewith their vacuumsto suction, then sutureone shocking bolt to another.This, they call a braid,a waterspout. They drink [End Page 35] themselves alive from the crushedcarapace and, so hypnotized,confuse the calcified cindersfor a galaxy. Yardwork I'm afraid of the plants,their baby-hairs sharpand babyish, they don'tlisten to reason, or, myreason. I didn't meanto break anyone's spirit,or finger, or ribs. I'm afraidof my mother's tolerantbreasts, flip and brassyand undershirted flat.I want to be, finally,a fast runner. Someonewho can catch a ballwithout being afraidof the way that evenmountains will becomeplains. I'm afraid of myfather's beard andthe redness of his facebeneath it, the rash thatonce reminded meof a moose. I shouldmow the plants downbecause I can do that,I have a machine for that,but those old kisses, thatold breath, eaten oatmeal, [End Page 36] drunk dessert wine, if onlysome scalpel can cutthat off, leaving onlysome pretense of frailty.Please forgive me forthe turtle who has beenrecently unanchored inmy chest, so slowlygumming all the softround stuff in there,my...