“The Debate”
by Alison Luterman
I’m listening to my father and his brother,
both in their eighties, debate their childhood
from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners.
“We had no toys,” my father insists.
“What are you talking about, no toys?”
My uncle practically leaps from his chair,
except he can’t, on account of his back and his legs
and his feet and his hips. “We had tons of toys!”
Then he lists them: the playing cards
(“Those don’t count,” my father says);
the train set (“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the train set”);
the sleds — “Did anyone else on our block have sleds?”
Uncle Barry asks. “Nineteen-forty, people are crawling
out of the Great Depression on hands and knees, tell me:
Did anyone on our block besides us have a sled?”
My father’s father had a good job delivering newspapers
and brought home sixty-five dollars a week,
enough for Chinese food every Friday
and cupcakes on birthdays.
“We really didn’t have birthday parties,”
my father contends, and my uncle lunges at this.
“What are you talking about?
What about that surprise party
when you turned thirteen?”
“That was the only time,” my father counters.
Don’t even try, Uncle Barry, I almost say,
then catch myself. I want
this unwinnable argument to continue —
forever, if possible. I want
the Brooklyn music of their voices
entwined in a duet with no resolution. I want the song —
half lament, half celebration —
to go on and on and on.
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“The Debate”
by Alison Luterman
I’m listening to my father and his brother,
both in their eighties, debate their childhood
from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners.
“We had no toys,” my father insists.
“What are you talking about, no toys?”
My uncle practically leaps from his chair,
except he can’t, on account of his back and his legs
and his feet and his hips. “We had tons of toys!”
Then he lists them: the playing cards
(“Those don’t count,” my father says);
the train set (“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the train set”);
the sleds — “Did anyone else on our block have sleds?”
Uncle Barry asks. “Nineteen-forty, people are crawling
out of the Great Depression on hands and knees, tell me:
Did anyone on our block besides us have a sled?”
My father’s father had a good job delivering newspapers
and brought home sixty-five dollars a week,
enough for Chinese food every Friday
and cupcakes on birthdays.
“We really didn’t have birthday parties,”
my father contends, and my uncle lunges at this.
“What are you talking about?
What about that surprise party
when you turned thirteen?”
“That was the only time,” my father counters.
Don’t even try, Uncle Barry, I almost say,
then catch myself. I want
this unwinnable argument to continue —
forever, if possible. I want
the Brooklyn music of their voices
entwined in a duet with no resolution. I want the song —
half lament, half celebration —
to go on and on and on.
Why I Respect the Dog
By Catherine Pierce
The dog weighs twelve pounds
and uses them as she pleases.
The king-size bed is not big enough.
Sleep enabler, stretch-monger,
when she wants to be touched,
she offers up the narrow white arc
of her belly. When a loud face
crowds her, she growls. Or, depending
on the weather, the time, the face,
she doesn’t. The dog knows
the precise creak of the cheese drawer
and waits. She is never wrong.
The dog does not care for rain.
The dog does not fret about the carpets.
The dog is on the table again,
and the sandwich crusts are gone,
the cereal milk is gone,
the cracker crumbs are gone.
She knows “down” but will not heed it.
Sometimes at night I leave her
sleeping on the couch, her eyes
flickering with dreams. From bed
I hear her nails clicking down
the hall, fast, faster. She noses open
the door and launches herself
against me, her twelve pounds,
her punk-black fur. She wants
to be close, right now, it is urgent,
and then, simple as that, she is.
Quite Excellent
“The Debate”
by Alison Luterman
I’m listening to my father and his brother,
both in their eighties, debate their childhood
from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners.
“We had no toys,” my father insists.
“What are you talking about, no toys?”
My uncle practically leaps from his chair,
except he can’t, on account of his back and his legs
and his feet and his hips. “We had tons of toys!”
Then he lists them: the playing cards
(“Those don’t count,” my father says);
the train set (“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the train set”);
the sleds — “Did anyone else on our block have sleds?”
Uncle Barry asks. “Nineteen-forty, people are crawling
out of the Great Depression on hands and knees, tell me:
Did anyone on our block besides us have a sled?”
My father’s father had a good job delivering newspapers
and brought home sixty-five dollars a week,
enough for Chinese food every Friday
and cupcakes on birthdays.
“We really didn’t have birthday parties,”
my father contends, and my uncle lunges at this.
“What are you talking about?
What about that surprise party
when you turned thirteen?”
“That was the only time,” my father counters.
Don’t even try, Uncle Barry, I almost say,
then catch myself. I want
this unwinnable argument to continue —
forever, if possible. I want
the Brooklyn music of their voices
entwined in a duet with no resolution. I want the song —
half lament, half celebration —
to go on and on and on.
