Hunting Season
All the boys in class
wore Carhartts and camo.
Their parents wrote excuse notes
for opening weekend because algebra
and the assassination of Lincoln
do not compare to the
weight of a rifle or the
warm organs of a doe.
I stayed behind with
the other girls
and the mothers
targeted by department store ads
for Widow’s Weekend.
Buy makeup. Drink margaritas.
Wait by the door
for hubby to get home.
My father doesn’t hunt and
my mother would never wait by the door.
The Fixer
My father fixes things.
His Midwest hands
unclog bathroom sinks,
repair split cabinet wood,
solder radio wires together.
My anxiety assures me that
I have decaying dentin,
but my insurance doesn’t
cover root canals.
I sob into the phone and my father
snaps into the receiver
Well don’t be mad at me.
He puts my mother on
because he has work to do.
Wood hammers back together.
Smashed plastic melts back
into one piece.
Alicia Schmitt is a writer and photographer living in Port Washington, WI. She grew up in rural Wisconsin and now lives along the lake, so the Midwest runs in her blood. She has one published chapbook entitled many little things.
Portage Magazine 