Mother’s Day, Register 7 | William Bonfiglio
She has little patience for me. She
spent it on her husband somewhere
between the aisles stocked with
Lunchables, Banquet dinners, and
Seagrams frozen drink pouches.
Ice, she says. I need ice. Where do
you keep your ice? I have a bag
fetched for her.
It’s his week with
Aubrey and, he’s sorry, but they’ve
already made plans. The state park
has been on their radar for months,
and the weather’s just perfect for
the quadcopter.
She’s slashing at
the terminal. It’s asking me to
swipe my card she says. I did that
already. I tell her the machines are
temperamental and sometimes they
don’t take.
This isn’t true.
The truth
is that if she took the time to read
the instructions she would know
there is an order to how things are
done. So when the terminal reads
Please Select Payment Type and
shows keys labeled Credit and
Debit and EBT, she should comply.
But I don’t tell her the truth. I tell
her the machines are
temperamental. I tell her that
sometimes they don’t take.
About the Author:
William Bonfiglio is a PhD candidate at the University of New Brunswick. His poetry has been awarded a Peal Hogrefe Grant in Creative Writing Recognition Award, the Julia Fonville Smithson Memorial Prize, and has appeared in New Letters, PRISM International, The American Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere.