1. the first apartment

the clover memories we carry
under the soles of our shoes,
slid into trap doors, locked in rubber.

they say nothing
anymore.

scrolling lines of gray
that flicker on our eyes,
illuminating the bar codes
behind our browns and blues

we tell each other secrets
that come from where we
don’t speak
don’t sleep
with our eyes to the wall.

and keep our muddy souls in a box,
cut in half
under the table.

2. termites in bed

our breath evens and slows
when we are wrapped
together,

cotton – bare and torrid
with sweat and tears.
pillows swollen with the money
of our childhood,
the bronze and silver that
melted in jars on windowsills
of yellow paisley –

gams’ wallpaper, her best
attempt at femininity.

and when it peels from
the sodden wood,
her stories of rose petal soup
and bright church mornings
peel back on the underside.

3. it all comes home

bunched fingers slid into my
coat pocket when I looked away.
I thought you had gone
from the room, to
hang empty frames
in the hall
to remind me of the memories
we have not made.

bottles of spices you left
on the counter:
salt and cinnamon to ward
off sentimentality.

too much compassion in the
dinners we make for
each other.

4. the first page of my baby book

the empty boat stays tied
at this corner,
a place adjacent to the
bald spot in the yard
where I buried the first
scraps of your name.

written in my childblood
and torn between syllables;
like they told me
in school –

to be aware of the spaces
between letters
where meaning
and mistake hide.

where I gouged a place
to curl and suffocate.

02/27/2006

Posted on 04/08/2006
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich