Slipper Socks

Whenever I tell people

"I don't eat meat."

They tell me

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But they never follow through.

I remember

the car ride

that I shared with you

when I told you

"I don't eat meat."

And you said

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But here we are

on the couch next to the

Christmas trees

(that has lights

sparklier than the Eiffel tower)

and your plate of meatballs

smells like

things I can't have.

I like celebrating

our aversion to celebrating

with pizza and television.

In ten minutes
the door will open
and my jeans will be new
and my smile will be real
and today will vanish.

Wednesday Ashes

Your kitchen cupboard arms are open
in a rare display of mother hen affection
that you are exhibiting for not me.

I can still see the eyes you wore last Thursday
when your voice was like a velvet ribbon
and I was in love with the thought that
things might change.

My sentences are stanzas that litter the
alleys of my mind.

They never find their way to my mouth
to acquaint themselves with my tongue
or my teeth
or that little dangly thing in the back of my throat.

I ride the bus home and listen to The Beatles
and tell myself not to worry
and stare out the window
and I rise from the ashes of the day.

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it bled all the way to the bathroom.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I rinsed it under water that turned it pink.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
people were all asking me if I was alright.

I could see the drops of blood I spilled
on the tiles in the cafeteria.

I could see the white of the tile on the bathroom floor
and the way it looked like it was bleeding
when my finger flooded the paper towel I had covered it with.

I've had my finger for as long as I can remember
and when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it had to get acquainted with a bruise and a slice
the shape of a wheelbarrow (with much more dirt.)

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I could see you out of the corner of my eye.

Braille

I remember the books with the yellow spines
and the browning pages
that you used to read to me like they were
new.

I remember the pink carpet
that you put over the plywood floor
to make me feel like I was a queen

(when in reality
I was nothing more than a daughter).

I remember wanting to burn down the walls
and walk away from the ashes.

I remember loving the smell
of the grass in the morning
and running my fingers through it
like it was a head of hair
even though I knew
that the dew would make my fingers wet
and cold.

I remember reading the world like braille
and not understanding a word.