love the broken thing

The final adjustment of wig on pale scalp
as she thrusts herself
into the dead-air of the school entrance.
She does not want your protection
just the promise of an unquestioned future.


Then painting another’s fingernails
carefully under hospital lighting.
She does not remember that ancient windowsill in
south Georgia, embroidered curtains above the kitchen sink.
She can no longer tell you the story of the dead
confederate soldier buried at the corner of her father’s plot.
You smooth her hair and she calls you Gail,
her dead sister’s name.

And him on the days when his soul’s
been swallowed down; his eyes are polished stones,
rejecting sight. You are the nervous creature,
coquettish and dumb-grinning, behaving just right.
oh, I’m not well again tonight, dear

He does not touch you, stranger.