From Jen's Diary

Mixed up is not the word,
it's some other haunted
word, a word confined
in prisons or used by
addicts with symptoms,
their mouths dry,
their eyes filled
with monsters.

yes, the kids seem
fine, and Jack's
a blessing, but my
confusion spreads
like hot jello
on the cold tile floor.

when Jack leaves
for work, his truck backs
up slowly, leaving tread marks
in gravel, he beeps twice
and waves while
behind each tree
in the orchard I see
rifles nosing
out to shoot.

then the bus
picks up the kids,
and I'm alone,
the buzzing security
system my only protection
from insanity, and Regis
reads some fun stuff
on TV and I smile,
my second cup of coffee
nursed down slowly
to its sugary dregs.