this hillside tarpaper shack isn't
my home, though here I roast pork three times daily for my
make-believe father
who drools for hams he's strung up like convicts or
children, lost, who only swing about
waiting for bidders. Fair weather watched my kidnapping
when I was driven
off by this farmer who lives to slaughter his
hogs, to gorge on bacon, chops, entire
Decembers no cereals for growing girls, and the
calendar stalls like
his filthy silver. His fingers smear me as
blue as hams that shudder under his
tainted knives. He tends to me. Mother in stores, reclaim
me, or I'm rendered.
Freud and the Brontės. Circling chairs in
a living room under ficus branches (twisted in
gestures we know from
agreeable boyfriends who possess no
notions) we study each bouquet while
love-birds shriek. Our grove's so full we kill proposals to
the green bottle's dregs.
In secret we answer Freud's question. Dora,
you scammed him, we'll toast you and also
Emily Brontė, who stashed the key to her diary in
her corset and spied
amongst hedges. Our thirsty boyfriends are locked-
out, perplexed. As blossoms shut they ex-
change stories, uneasily spy on our hide-out while
our faces redden
in elegant glasses; we sink as in bath-
water, frankly naked and strengthened.
Ficus shakes. Freud hasn't a chance, nor boyfriends knocking
voyeurs' death-wishes.
stray creatures didn't skulk under our
porch and whine, I'd be free inside my room. And the guy
downstairs plays hide-and-
seek like it's solitaire; but it's summer and
satellites cruise skies as purple as
bruises. Yes, I walk hecticly, but who'll protect him,
stumbling to package
stores or napping in shrubbery? I tuck him
in, and he can't pronounce "thanks." Outside
traffic's moving slowly tonight, and it's all my fault.
Strays are hungry, while
owls complain, like women who yearn for creatures
to foster. Father, as when your head-
ache bore me, his hangover loves me. In cities and skies
nothing else looks out.