generic american household

by Liz Pino Sparks

By the time I had given birth to

our third child, we had two dogs,

two cats, a dead dog, two houses,

three apartments, one really good

stock pot, a french press, a few

sharp knives, many cars of many

kinds, a poltergeist in the attic, tied

up with string, a drunken mother-

in-law, not tied up with string, a

door at the top of the stairs, 

that kept smoke downstairs and 

ghosts upstairs, a scent – dahlias, 

they said – like all generic, American 

households, like our marriage, like 

our vows, like our car stereo, before

the neighborhood boys ripped it out, 

along with the center console of our 

beat up Ford Taurus. By the time 

I had lost our fourth child, we had 

two more cats, an automatic 

coffee maker with a timer, a garden 

with mint that took over the yard, 

spilling over the perimeter walls, a 

neighbor who shared his weed on the 

wind on Saturday nights, another 

neighbor who took in young boys with 

nowhere to go, in a world that would 

otherwise waste them, a broken foot 

from falling down on falling down 

stairs – jagged, you said – like all 

crumbling, American Victorians, like 

our plans for our future, like our skin 

before the smile lines stayed,  well 

after the smiles themselves had faded.

Liz Pino Sparks is a parent of five, a teacher, a legal scholar, a singer-songwriter under the name Liz Capra, and a multi-genre writer. They hold a law degree from Case Western Reserve University School of Law and an MFA in Fiction from San Diego State University. Their poems have been featured in Hayden's Ferry Review and Boats Against the Current Magazine. Their recent chapbook, Generic American Household, is now available as part of the boats against the current inaugural chapbook series.