(1) From: The Wait, BL Seiber, MFA thesis, 1994

The Hudson
A history of my family involves a history of vehicles; large, long, fast sedans whose power reflected some need in my father, some want of a small man for a grander definition. The first ever turn into Grosack Lane was made in darkness. I was ready for the future then. The Hudson's bullet lines slipped quietly into the shadows. My mother, weary from the move and children so young, moaned "I knew it couldn't be," as we sailed past the white farmhouse and through the first gate. Our dwelling lay somewhere ahead in the void. The night engulfed our caravan: Father, Mother, the baby, two sisters and I occupied the Hudson; an uncle drove the moving van; two brothers followed in the Kaiser. At the second gate, my father waited, engines running, the dark playing games beyond the window. He waited to see what I would do before he opened the gate himself. That would come to be my chore: opening gates as he roared by, and waiting to see if he would stop for me.


The Revolver in the Oven
A child, I knew the fix was in, all games rigged, the play over. When Dad was drinking, life became a deteriorating question: a half forgotten notion of what was, when day was meadow full and bright, robin-true, all to be trusted. Life's normal, wheelwork, predictable patterns depended on my father's presence. His plate, at dinner was fixed first, his cup always first full. His pride, that of a small man, was the standard by which by which I measured all men. But in his reverie and stupor, his every trace reeked of cheap wine, urine, death. He had taken to hiding his guns from us. He once thought the oven a safe place for the revolver. My mother, after he'd gone under, lit the stove and went out into the garden before dinner. I was in the yard out back, wondering how true our hound was. At the first report we both came running. She thought I, and I thought she, had put some end to this situation. Another report as, terrifed, we entered the kitchen. Another burst out the back of the stove, and it was clear then what he'd done. She sat there on the floor worn linoleum in front of the stove, and cried, worn out, as two more shots tore through the wall. And through everything, she waited on him. She waited for the car in the lane; for closing time at the E&R Grill; for someone, anyone, to come and tell her just what a woman is supposed to do with her man like death and childern so young.


Envy
Awakened early by Mother's hand, and asked to go search the hayloft for eggs someone forgot for my brother's breakfast. He had to go to the fields soon, and I alone knew the hen's nesting places, which ones were setting, where fresh eggs might be. New cut clover filled the barn with thick, meadow sweetness. Ladder rungs, polished smooth, were no great chore in the not-quite light, even with eggs cradled in one arm to my chest. But I missed the comfort of the bed, my sleep and dreams. One brother and I, we shared a bed. The older chose to sleep alone. He thought himself some Marlon Brando, looked oddly just enough James Dean. I drempt that he had made his run across the field, my mother following as he left the ground. Airborne, they were lost within the breath of stars. I remembered this angrily as I watched him, tanned and shirtless in the summer sun, catching hay bales the machine tossed up. I envied his tight muscles, his size, and the breezy hold with which he kept my mother captive in his clouds.