Picnic Parenting
Megan Warner
I.
I wear a potato salad smile, yellow
Kind of squishy but soft like a
“my mom makes it better” – don’t you know?
Still disappointing, but a quiet type
Like you were expecting not to taste
What you wanted potatoes to taste like
II.
My finger gets stuck in the hole
Of a plastic picnic table with the bench
Attached at the side – you know the ones
That leave honeycomb crescent marks on
Bare thighs you promised mom you wouldn’t
Bring today like she expected you to listen
III.
Her hand is heavy plastic on my shoulder
A squeeze and go somewhere in between
A sunflower yellow and something hole-like
And squished empty. I pull my finger out
and walk away only imagining the look
on her face seeing the skin below my shorts
Doesn’t make the potato salad mustard
Taste like Jessica’s mom mixed it instead