INHERITANCE
by Lauren Schmidt

Invariably,
when we left the house
on family trips

to the grocery store,
or vacations at the Jersey shore,

my mother would turn to my father
in the front seat of the car, ask:

Did I leave the coffee pot on?

Invariably,
she didn’t.

And because I don’t
drink coffee,

I worry about my toaster.



ON ROUTE 208

a stretch of high-end cars
screeched to a stop
for a happy trail of ducks.
A near accident or two,
some flinging middle fingers
and angry late-day faces,
folks hurtling home
after eight hours
of coffee and telephones.

It pleased me to be
on that slice of highway
in the Garden State
that stopped
for the happy trail
because I think,
too often, we tend
to crush our ducks. 



BRITTANY'S TATTOO

            The Haven House for Homeless Women and Children, Monmouth County, New Jersey

            Her tattoo is no stone-cold Lady Justice--
tattered blindfold, sword, scales in balance--

            just the ink-black cursive word
Justice cuts over the upward

            thrust of her jugular:
throat to the jugband

                        of her heart to the
ovation of her brain, blue tether.

                        Because

            when Brittany needs to believe the word’s
wine-red truth, she presses the wormy

            vein to feel blood thunder
beneath her fingers.