Used to Live, II


the smear I drew with off-pink
lipstick on the flocked wallpaper

the torn underside of the mattress
the odd-smelling crease where
the dresser and floor meet, left side

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

The Stars are Yellow, Surrounded by Black


At 6am, I splay my tender feet
on cold pink tile, pretending

I can't remember your name. House
in the palm of my hand. Stink beetle

nestling in my ear, whispering, this
is the way we wash our hands. Skin

color was always SALMON PINK, like
this sky. My families were never

big enough, floated off to one side.
You have to use the whole page,

the teacher said as she gave me a fresh
box of wax. The blues didn't taste

as good as they smelled. When she
asked me to make a face, I drew

your mouth in black, a place
like a locked door, and me
on the wrong side, or under it.

I am almost recovered from the AWP fever or plague -- sniffles and a general feeling of discontent. Here it is:

Home Surgery


he climbed into the sink, small fists in the tangle
of silverware, the messy oatmeal muck, while
she banged on the window beside the feeder,

creamy wax stuffed with tiny yellow pellets
and sunflower seeds, laughed as the cardinals
startled, filled the yard with flying red and husks:

the bleach bottle under the sink hidden by fake
yellow carnations, thread tangled in their dusty
stems, and how should she hold the needle,

watch Sammie like a hawk, she had said,
her mother, who had taught her to knot
the thread three times and bite instead of cut