STARCHITECTURE

A Mother Compares Herself to Her Disorderly Adult Son

how could you, you knew he was coming today -A line from the poem “The Last Romantic” by John Ashbery.

When the prince provides a freewill offering, either a burnt offering or peace offerings as a freewill offering to the Lord, the gate facing east shall be opened for him. And he shall offer his burnt offering or his peace offerings as he does on the Sabbath day. Then he shall go out, and after he has gone out the gate shall be shut. -Ezekiel 46:12

A mother shuts the door at 3:40pm,
watching her adult son drive away.
In his backseat: an apple pie, groceries,
for some reason the charcoal from the garage
that hadn’t been put in a barbeque for years.
“Summer vacation,” was all he said.

He drives east, because her backyard ends at the Pacific Ocean.
That was her symbolism:
the very last thing he could do was visit her
because there was nothing past her house but waves upon waves
where even the Sun ended up in the water at night.

Once again, he had visited her after a crisis.
She forgot to ask if he had an apartment still.
He told her he lost his job, and his girlfriend dumped him,
and his credit card was maxed out.
Maybe, she thinks, while his red tail lights turn at the end of the street,
it was for the best not to ask him where he was going this time.
For her, maybe, it was for the best, for once,
to not be the last seaside resort,
with her beach made out of sticky wet sand and pine cones.
All the better to give him the charcoal
and hope that he still had his tent in the trunk
the way he did for this girlfriend

who was good for him in the forest, on trips up mountainsides,
in appointments with dentists and doctors.
Maybe that was why this mother forgot to follow her previous rituals
of observing if he ate enough, talked to his friends,
asking questions about his health and recalling her own bank balance.
Did his experience in the relationship change him
as much as his girlfriend changed her?

That is the question that reminds her of her own mother
the believer in ESP and synchronicity.
Her son did not phone ahead to say he would arrive.
Why did she bake that pie in the morning?
Does she ever replace her old patterns
or does she, eventually, over years, merely fold more layers
of tea towels onto the countertop, and place new food on top of her unconscious self?

Starchitecture

Today I saw an apartment building
made of bricks the colour of mashed sweet potato
and in the moment, I waited for the crosswalk light
I saw a future made of starch houses
designed by people who, fed up,
decided to allow everyone to build their houses
by shopping at a grocery store.

Fed up about what, makes no difference
to the sweet potato farmers
who already owe everything to starch.

Terry Trowbridge’s poems are in Pennsylvania Literary Journal, MasticadoresUSA, Poetry Pacific, Carousel, Lascaux Review, Carmina, untethered, Progenitor, Miracle Monocle, Orbis, Pinhole, Big Windows, Muleskinner, Brittle Star, Mathematical Intelligencer, Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, New Note, Hearth and Coffin, Beatnik Cowboy, Delta Poetry Review, Stick Figure, miniMAG, and 100+ more. His lit crit is in BeZine, Erato, Amsterdam Review, Ariel, British Columbia Review, Hamilton Arts & Letters, Episteme, Studies in Social Justice, Rampike, Seeds, and The /t3mz/ Review. His Erdös number is 5. Terry is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for his first 2 writing grants