honeymoon

your brother cannot pick us up he’s in jail so we cab it
he calls five ten times a day girlfriend in the trailer park her kids
wants $500 of our gift money we put it all in the bank
finally we left your mother’s house in Boca
to escape for Disney to get away from it for two days
back and then the beach you shamed by my leopard bikini
refuse to take me to Lauderdale jealous
throwing a shirt over me no one should see
me look that sexy

your brother gets out somehow and we have
a night of it at the trailer park and then fly out
Jack who grew up in a bus as a barefoot child
on your beachy street back home, squatters in a school bus
picks us up from the house drives us to the airport
he wigs out so he drops us at the wrong far end
near the runway and rambles off
we walk bags in hand watching planes
Jesus we gave him gas money you say
It’s at least a half mile I walk in my heels
“this is dog patch” your mother used to say
now I know when we get home
what you turn into

Eve Chilali is an American writer based in the greater New York City area. This poem is part of a forthcoming collection.