Monday, September 06, 2004

Mornings at Cold Comfort

cherry red the name of my mother’s lipstick
applied in the review mirror
as she honked in our driveway
for my brother and me to slam our way
down the front steps hissing and burping
at each other the trees the robins that destroyed
our rest both of us so intent on hate

dreams still hanging like stinking halos
from our collars wrists so intent on the comfort
and darkness under our pillows, comforters, tucked
under mattresses comfortable nothing

the driveway sliding down the hill more each day
winter’s mud pressing against the house shifting it
making the beams unsteady and the doors sleepy cock-eyed

we vowed revenge against the sun the spring the school
everything that demanded we leave our dank spider-covered
comfort but esp. against our mother cherry red
every morning itching to
get back to her room all bed kingsized with a hot water bottle
itching to get rid of us

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