Mea Andrews

Three Poems

Patio Lizards

My uncles, together since

the internet was forums,

moved to Florida, grew Duck

Dynasty beards, invested

in hybrid cars, collected

Fiestaware to put on

display. Mouthed amber lager

watching lizards swarm under

patio chairs, ceiling cling,

hide down cement cracks. They’d hand

on knee laugh as their dogs fell

back, firing warning woofs.

They believed sun would shake scales

loose by morning, hot rock bound

or climbing branches stretched high,

faith that they would see countless

reptilian evenings

together. Never thumbing

top off two beers for ritual’s

sake, feeling ghost limb

thigh touching, urn sitting

in a straw plaited chair while

patio crawls.

Overheard at the Family Reunion: January 22, 2022

so what will you do

uncle-mother

if I lose my cerebellum I lose

my ability to rock climb

dance speech slurs

why did evolution bother

you’re a misnomer

it means

happy sad and everything

in-between

forever and ever and

you look so young again

touch my head and

know my hair

butterflies have trapped us
I know I exist because

I see something

June 12, 2012

You went to Iraq and died, legs blown off and I wonder if a jackel somewhere fed you to its kin and you live on in the cells of our so-called enemies’ predators or if a politician somewhere paid to have your parts brought back and polished, a bedroom trophy piece. I remember you dousing golden wedges rolled in salt with vinegar, your lips pickling to strawberry lemonade. Your knee bounce-bounce-stop repeat when you were anxious; the way you kept Psalm 121 wrinkled in your back pocket. I still own that brown jacket with its too large buttons and scratchy fleece. You told me it was something designer; I didn't care. You suggested I sell it for money. Chivalrous remarks rarely escaped your lips but showed in the way you tried to steal me away from the boyfriend too high to make it home most nights and the apartment I couldn't afford. The night I absorbed you—the blonde hair sheered close to your skull, the holes in your eyebrow I paid for, the sex we had, the pretend fight in the street just to give your neighbors something to watch—somehow your last, to me. I think of all the other people, eyes muscle memory wandering down childhood streets replaying moments that can never be recreated.

Mea Andrews is a writer from Georgia, who currently resides in China. She has just finished her MFA from Lindenwood University and is only recently back on the publication scene. You can find her in Vermilion, Rappahannock Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and others. You can also follow her on Instagram at mea_writes or go to her website at meaandrews.com