in the case of
talking to your mother through an Ouija board

the ceiling of my uncle's bed room is
slanted-- it was supposed 
to just be the attic--
the attic is where we 
put everything we
don't want to have to look
at everyday--
a good place to keep boys--
a poster of a shining robot woman
stares down at him and my father--
laser poised-- lightning bolts
spray painted on her hips--
my father sleeps in the room next
door with the windows open
because it's july
and their aunts are afraid
of air conditioners--
the artificial arctic possession of
a house--
their mother died without them
knowing she was sick--
cancer is only ever a metaphor--
from under his bed my uncle pulls 
out the rectangular box--
sun and moon painted in the upper
corners--
"Ouija," he says-- 
and reveals the
wooden board-- collage of letters
and numbers--
it reminds my father 
of the porch for some reason--
he's remembering himself
bare foot and shirt off-- 
legs collecting another
layer of sunburn--
his mother is under the shade
perched in a white plastic chair--
notebook open-- harvesting
a memory of how the sun
dried out her children--
she wiped perspiration off
a glass of lemonade--
flicked the cold water 
at him--
he jumped and squealed--
"I want to ask something
to her?"
"To her?" my uncle asked
and picked up the board--
"how will we know we're 
really talking to her?"
my father was already at work
and they put their hands down
on the disk at the center--
"I'm scared" my uncle said--
"I'm not," my father said--
"I want to know where you
are," my father demanded--
fingers grazing the surface--
for a moment he contemplated 
moving the planchette himself--
he would make 
her say she loved them--
that she remembered--
that's all anyone wants to 
hear is that they're remembered--
instead he let the 
disk levitate on it's own--
"It's moving-- It's moving"
my uncle whimpered--
"put it away-- put it away!"
"But we haven't said
goodbye or even hello" my father
protested--
but my uncle flipped
the board 
scattered-- shattering the
glass looking piece--
"Look what you did!" my father
snapped and a shard glass
nicked his hand while
he tried
to get to his feet--
"I was just scared--" my uncle
said-- "I was just scared
she wouldn't remember--"
and they both cleaned up 
the broken glass off the
floor--
laid out again on 
the porch and
painted 
painted
painted sun burn.