Their marriage like our family garden

froze in the winter, rotted through spring; and in summer,

after long negligence, Mother panicked, William!

and her dresses grew sweat-stained

and wilted; William, do you think

it’s too late in the season; and Dad tore his newspaper down its stem like a leaf

because the betted-on horse was out with an injury;

and the dryer whistled and mourned; and the flowers nodded,

yes; and a red fox threw up on our fertilized lawn,

crawled beneath the front porch, wearing a halo of flies,

chemicals burning its throat.