Jeff Vande Zande

SLEEP OVER

It’s the first time
he doesn’t want us
around. They disappear
upstairs with sleeping bags,
pillows, a miniature suitcase,
like bonsai luggage.
They close the door.
My wife and I aren’t sure
what to do with our
sudden personal space.
We drift around
the empty downstairs.
I go to the landing
twice, lift a foot
to the first step.
My wife shakes her head.
“Just let them play,”
she says, smiling,
watching the weather
channel, trying to be positive
despite the cold fronts.
The upstairs rumbles
with their running
and distant voices.
What they will begin
to share tonight in whispers,
will leave us behind,
the start of what will be
our son’s own life.
Watching TV, my wife
and I remember
how to hold hands
like teenagers. Skin
finds skin, fingers
slide between fingers,
knotting, intertwining,
palms sweating
beneath the slow rhythm
of thumb rubbing thumb
until coming
downstairs so quietly,
they startle us,
as though we’d forgotten
we weren’t alone.

–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006

Jeff Vande Zande

CLEAN

Her small body shines
with water and light.
Giggling, she squeals daddy,
splashes until his pants darken.
Five more minutes, he thinks,
stepping out quickly,
pouring himself a drink,
not expecting to return
to find her slipped under,
her tiny face staring up
through the undulating surface.
Before he can move,
or drop his scotch,
she raises her dripping head,
her mouth a perfect O.
The sound of her gulped breath
takes the wind out of him.
Her face, pale and awed,
understands the other side
of water and air.
His wife didn’t see,
doesn’t know.
Her feet pulse and fade
in the upstairs joists.
His daughter cries,
slips from him, not giggling.
She wants out.
He tries to keep her
in the tub, in the light.
He’s on his knees.

–from Rattle #24, Winter 2005

Jeff Vande Zande

MICROCOSM

She starts the engine, wanting
only the air conditioning.
He unloads their shopping cart
into the back and then slides
in against the scorching seat,
grips the wheel, and watches
her finger skim the receipt
until she finally announces
that the store didn’t charge
them for the table lamp.
They both turn around
as though to check a child
strapped into a booster.
It’s there. And, it’s theirs.
Crystal base. Beige shade.
They tingle with chemicals:
norepinephrine, phenylethylamine,
dopamine— the same blend
of neurotransmitters that fired
six years ago in the stretch
of their first extended kiss.
It’s not until miles later,
when normal levels return,
that they turn to each other.
She begins with the rumors
of child labor overseas,
while he explains how
places like that always bully
their way into towns
with promises of low prices,
and they’re both soon nodding
to the idea that all of this,
the unaccounted parting gift
of a sixty-five dollar lamp,
this rare olly olly oxen free,
is exactly what a store
like that deserves.

–from Rattle #31, Summer 2009

Jeff Vande Zande

SLEEP OVER

It’s the first time
he doesn’t want us
around. They disappear
upstairs with sleeping bags,
pillows, a miniature suitcase,
like bonsai luggage.
They close the door.
My wife and I aren’t sure
what to do with our
sudden personal space.
We drift around
the empty downstairs.
I go to the landing
twice, lift a foot
to the first step.
My wife shakes her head.
“Just let them play,”
she says, smiling,
watching the weather
channel, trying to be positive
despite the cold fronts.
The upstairs rumbles
with their running
and distant voices.
What they will begin
to share tonight in whispers,
will leave us behind,
the start of what will be
our son’s own life.
Watching TV, my wife
and I remember
how to hold hands
like teenagers. Skin
finds skin, fingers
slide between fingers,
knotting, intertwining,
palms sweating
beneath the slow rhythm
of thumb rubbing thumb
until coming
downstairs so quietly,
they startle us,
as though we’d forgotten
we weren’t alone.

–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006