days of not staring at the sun
through car windows,
through the cigarette smoke.
avocados in lunch pails
and pink corduroy on hangers.
her bedroom always dark
and humming.

dreams spotted with
the sharp gray hills of minor.
girls with tan cheeks and dolls,
bronze legs that taper, shine,
but do not bend.
gaping eyes over the pot
of sweet tea.

toys spread over the floor.
flattened carpet fibers
where aged slippers paced.
the phone that no one answers
sitting on the yellow stand,
she is beginning to die.
we stopped trying to feed the horses.

the air tastes different here,
like swamp and sandpaper.
the undertaker’s daughter
sings at church, just like
second and thirdhand brides
wear floral sun dresses
in front of a step-audience.

with heads slung back,
our eyes make sense of stars
and of stomach pains.
crouching beside the toilet,
staring at hands and legs.
skin splotched with humiliation
and excitement.

04/10/2006

Posted on 04/14/2006
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich