The Party

I don't care if nobody

under forty can hang a door

properly. I'm six and I'm bored.

In the kitchen Lavada

is plucking a turkey

who looks crumpled

and turned inside out

He's full of holes.

I throw my skinny arms in the air

as far as my bones will let them go

and giggle. It's ten years to Lavada's heart

attack and sixty to mine.

Black overweight Lavada tucks

a feather in her hair

and we dance, her triceps

wobblillg like charred wattles. We laugh

until our jawbones sting

as if we'd drunk mossy

cold, rust-flecked water

from the bottom of the well.