Against my hand, on a wall of water, a portrait of my family formed
far back to finger painting, far back to king lizards,
protozoa, mud squishing
In the sudden wind, I lost a strand of hair, torn off,
it settled against the water, asking for its turn at "spoon"
Hairs set against the limpid wall, the silt of my blood contained there
asked for a water hearse to sweep the land. It wasn't my conscious wish to call
upon open rivers, though you wouldn't know it from my insomnia, my guilt.
Why couldn't you look at me when you told me about your mother,
because we share the same name? Does that make me the criminal?
I wish I could take the leaves from your throat one by one. Press them
in a diary and write my own captions, my own expressions of your grief.
Hoard it, like a squirrel nut in my dresser.
We talked about your love for kissing and mine. How they corresponded.
And I thought of your white coverlet and high post bed. I don't belong there.
We both know it.
