The Rival

My mother got a flying baby. She already had four cats and two dogs. When I came in on Saturday, the baby was tied to a banister, flying up around the ceiling. Mom, you need to keep that ceiling fan off, I said. The baby smelled funny, its diaper was sagging and its skin looked loose. It had orange and yellow hair all over its hands. A baby is a lot of responsibility, Mom, I said. I snapped my fingers at the baby, trying to get it to fly down to me. The baby didn't even look, just kept fluttering its sticky wings and bumping into the walls. It doesn't look right, I said to Mom. I feed it every day, she said, and spray it with water, they said that babies need a lot of water. I asked my mom, Where's its bottle? She said, Somewhere, somewhere. She dug into the pile of soaking dirty dishes in the sink. She was wearing her t-shirt with the embroidered reindeer on motorcycles. Why are you wearing that? I said, it's not even Halloween yet. She fed one of her toy poodles something from the sink. Have you thought of a name yet? she said, I asked you for a name. I heard the baby bump into something in the hall, its wings whirring like a blender. The baby started to make a sound -- something between a toy fire engine and a bark. I think the baby's crying, I said. Oh, he will stop on his own, my mother said, he always does.

A Large Stable of Horses


I can't stop writing without my arm on fire
and then milk. I must be a reincarnation of St. Sophia,
or was that blood and milk.

Her teeth sharp, black, each morning she hands me
my peppermint latte at Dunkin Donuts. In another life,
she was Kali and I, the daughter she killed for singing or weeping.

You send me a postcard of Paris, although you've never
been there and you live in New Jersey. You are probably
a series of polka dots, or that advertisement about condoms in Spanish.

She thinks we are friends on Facebook, but I don't
remember borrowing her pink shoes. She must
be a reincarnated mouse, or some kind of grey machinery.

They whine that the day is too long and the sunset
too orange and short. They are buried Maine Coon cats,
resurrected for my New Year's party or the day after.

We never go in that room any more. We are fleas
without wings, or the lock frightens us -- size
of a baby's head, horrible key-hole and frown.


REWRITE

The Upstairs Neighbor


On a good day, your sweater reeks
of poppies, tree roots and sunburn.

You promise to send me a postcard
from Paris in the springtime, although

you're too old to fly to France and you
live in a four-story walk-up in Jersey City.

In the morning, your teeth sharp and black,
you hand me my peppermint latte from Dunkin

Donuts. In another life, you were Kali
and I, the daughter you smashed for singing

or weeping. I can't stop writing on my arm
about fire and milk. I dream I'm the reincarnation

of St. Sophia while you pretend to run a cosmetics
business from your cellar, and bury the bodies after

hours in the park. We can never go into the room
where we first met. We are tiny, tiny fleas

without wings, and the lock frightens us -- size
of a baby's head, frown and horrible key-hole.

Dorothy Shorn

awake in a field
of poppies, her underwear
missing, the lion mewling

on his back in the distance,
everything is glitter --
her skin glows like

she's been licking a light
socket, she touches her head,
the braids gone, under her finger-

tips, her fuzz feels as sweet and
strange as a monkey
lost in the milk barn, a riddle

that can only be answered
with an axe or egg