for rachel

my sister

who I snatched out of the gilt jaws
of some groaning beast, plucked
from the temple of God’s fortune, stole
from the mouth of His grinning
statue, all wet and chewed-up.
hurried down the marble steps,
threw a dark cloak around her.
she, leaned up against me, I, frantic, stuttering
sew her up wake her up.

I’ve stowed her in my attic
where I patched up the worst of it
then pushed in a set of new teeth
see? you’re good as almost
new, but just quiet now, keep quiet, please.

I swear all these years I am
nervous as a woman with
a lantern in my window or
as if it’s 1944 and there are Jews
in the annex . always chewing
my own lip, waiting for the knock

sometimes I think I might stand up and walk to the kitchen. pick up each glass and watch them smash to the floor. break your plates, break your bowls, break all the vases. walk to the bathroom and drop all the porcelain. listen to the crash as our toothbrushes scatter. Stand there barefoot and say I had no idea what to do.

just to watch you say I can’t and then show me the door. watch you put me out, my mouth full of glass.

but maybe you would say I understand perfectly and we’ll sweep it tomorrow and put your hand to my mouth, like my mother, say it’s ok dear, come on, spit it out.

interesting. I am a wooden garment. I am a clumsy registered nurse. I wear clodding shoes, once white, old leather cracking and soiled at the heels. my athleticism has long transformed into stockiness. my hair has lost its impact, growing over the years from chestnut brown to drain-water and is sensibly cut. I wake each morning and comb it after brushing my teeth. I floss and spit out a small thread of blood. I make friends with the staff in the foodish break room. I smile and laugh but my stomach refuses to unclench.

you are somehow living without me. leaving me suspended in fluid and brushing and flossing my teeth

just started

My former self arrives at my door, unannounced.
I cringe and nervously push back my unwashed hair,
self-conscious in an untied bathrobe,
while guiltily smoking another cigarette.

She wastes no time.
Is condescending. Says
I hardly recognized you, then,
fine, you want to just sit here?
Takes up a lead pipe and
breaks both my legs.

My future self is kinder.
She braids my hair and kisses my temples,
brings me soup in a stained paper bag, says
no excuses. one more bite.
winks at me and then whispers, confidential,
injuries aren’t always what they seem, my dear.
walking away was the easy part.

a few lines

is the getting still good, she asked,
my life is a glass tube around me.
I'm running out of breathing time

college graduation. 5.12.08

I think of all the things I’ve not understood;
you liquor-sick and mourning. So still
in my bed and weeping while whispering
truth in my ear and you only
wishing you loved me. But saying
truth to me over and I only (always)
half-comprehending what that word—
along with its layers of meaning—
could have meant to you then.

from the archives

My mother is my child

The motherless mother who tore out her throat
for her children--I cannot, even, understand her love for me.
She recognizes only my face.
In her childish simplicity, she remains slick and uncatchable
as plate glass.

I love her only as if she were my child,
confused, wandering through that big house immersed in
her chatter and flashing television programmes.
Yes, mother, you
are an enigma, proudly holding out your
high-school yearbook for my approval.
Homecoming queen.
Your eyes, eager for my praise,
look so young. was life what you wanted?

Though I cannot, truly, forget your age with
all these cancers that threaten
to eat you, as your mother was eaten. They strike panic
down into my protective heart at night.
I wake, wet with sweat, here in my city,
apart from you and dumb with terror
please don’t take my baby, don’t take my baby.