Daughter number two

And I said to her:
Stop it. Stop it. And then I yelled a  
little more than I should have. And 
she said, “Do you still love me?”

Stop it. Stop it. And then I yelled a
little less, but just enough. And
she said, “Do you still love me?”
If guilt were a heart attack, it would be a

little less, but just enough. And
my ears dimmed, my eyes muted; 
if guilt were a heart attack, it would be a:
“Yes, I still love you.”

My ears dimmed, my eyes muted;
little more than I should have. 
“Yes, I still love you.”
I said to her:

Mrs. McEntire...

A curtain drawn
shows her covered.
Wrapped, shawl and all;
paneled wood

shows her covered.
Still, and cold, breath begging;
paneled wood
held over and around.

Still, and cold, breath begging
for a final show, an encore.
Held over and around,
heavier than the air

for a final show, an encore
wrapped, shawl and all;
heavier than the air—
a curtain drawn…

Untitled

How can you add dates 
to a calendar

we share? A boxed future 

in numbers and far away 
places. Pushing a 
swing somewhere with treetops

aching and heavy with the 
wind.  Do you 
see us? Hands clasped and

clutched in the tight space

between our touching

thighs, resting on forgiving ground 

littered with dead things, damp
and leaking rot.  
A call that you did not

hear before. 

I cannot see 
in front of 
my own eyelash. 

Soaked

It is like old wallpaper being 
scraped from a plaster wall; 
at 

that age, it’s not meant 
to be yet it is.

Question 

every word, wink, and breath. 
It makes me think every

kiss, 

every caress, every undress was 
an inside joke. A gift, 
a 

meal, clean laundry—it’s all 
part of a final act 
that 

I never auditioned for. Question 
every picture we ever took 
or 

had taken of us, such 
a low, rough and swollen 
space. 

Hard to see the sides 
of it, the top or 
the 

bottom. 

Untitled

I somehow don't have a word or

words to say what I just could not

say at any point even when I whispered:

"I love you" 

and 

"goodnight."

And I called your name up and down

and up the stairs again because I felt lucky, 
I felt like you might just hear me through your 
exhale of cigarette smoke. I wondered, often, 
if your breath would smell sweeter had you 
been a little kinder or had smoked

a little less.  But I learned that kindness is 

neither inhaled or exhaled: it was in the lightness of

your hand on my shoulder and the circles

it made on my troubled belly.

blue and black

Your aunt made

a ceramic bowl

and painted it

blue and black.

It’s edges were rough

and uneven but it

still held whatever we

put in it no

matter the smallness of

the thing. I look inside

now and see two rings.

Two rings. They sit and

collide on smooth cold edges,

frictionless metal, soft and ungilded.

No longer guilted

on thinned

fingers. 

A Kind Of Bible

I read each word

that you wrote with

your hand on the

lined  paper.

Purchased for you

for a birthday or

Christmas or on a

day

when we were supposed

to be.

Each curve of each

word heavy,

bends an arc around

a kind of truth

that will not yield

and will not corner

sharp and make itself

blend

(invisibly)     with     out     leaving 

a stain.