Saturday, April 15, 2006

Almost late.


Memories -- A Private Selection

that day at the beach when you hurt your foot

the tiny sink in the crowded bathroom

the odd-smelling juncture where the dresser
and floor meet, left side

the place where the underside of the mattress is torn

December 15th, 1972

the second squirrel I hit with my car

stuffing your fingers in my mouth

when I was wearing the short dress
made out of flag material

the smeared place where I drew with off-pink lipstick
on the flocked wallpaper

my brother in the backseat,
staring out the window at nothing

the bed of a yellow pick-up truck, night time

tucking your head under my chin

clock gears hidden under the sofa cushions

sunburnt square of skin between my shoulders

orange juice, airport kiosk

the movie with the man who turned into a wolf
and wept

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