Cait Weiss

Mom’s moustache is kohl-lined, clean. Our father’s
a Jewish Klingon. Podge, harem floozy.
I’m a witch. I wear jeans. I don’t bother.
with costumes or slashers, drugs or boozing.
Being fourteen’s enough horror as is.
Mom appears: slim suit, cufflinks—a mister.
I’d sleep with myself. Our father thumbs his
pager. He won’t put it down to hold her.
My sister’s bellybutton casts a spell
on candy-handers. O pre-teen promise.
Last night I dreamt I was a man. I fell
in love with a girl, her hair’s soft blonde kiss.
            More gorgeous, my mother, cross-dressed manly,
            walks out of the house, leaving the family.