The Ferris Wheel

                                          I walked with this boy who had kinky white blond hair. I could see how hard
                                          he had pressed it down. He couldn’t win. We ate zeppole, and he tried to rest
                                          his arm on my shoulders. I pushed him down. The Ferris wheel enclosed our bodies
                                          in a hand-cup. We swung and we jerked until we were ushered to the top.
                                          Our chair trembled. He moved to kiss me, and I arrested his lips, closed him down. I
                                          was not finished with my father.

Pilgrims

                                                                                                    Summer nights we slept

                                                                                                    a foot apart, shared mosquitoes,

                                                                                                    and our mother’s screams.

                                                                                                    We heeded the ocean’s spread

                                                                                                    and withdrawal. Why did you

                                                                                                    leave me for another room?

                                                                                                    We were all we had.

Long Poem

         The desire to hurt myself came in waves, with a pain that eclipsed transition in childbirth. I
         closed my eyes and put my hands underneath my bottom. It was 4:38 am, and I let my husband
         sleep. I lay next to him, and held onto my breath. Stop time, push harder. St. Sebastian must have
         held his breath waiting for the next arrow. I waited for the light to come. In the morning I would
         wake my husband and we would go to the emergency room. How did you last my St. Sebastian?

         Pieces of words, chance lonesome the way things talked to me by surprise. Don’t be afraid to
         sleep, your husband is becoming a husband, I told myself. I looked at the ceiling and I trembled.
         I had tremors. I heard deep male voices reading news. Much of the contents of my life felt
         unnecessary. We had many summers when the police didn’t come. Now, they’ve been here four
         or five times. Twice my mother called the police and she lives 2,000 miles away. She
         complemented me on my judgment and pleaded with me not to doubt myself so much. The
         police came. She told me not to doubt myself, and then she sent the police. I began to be afraid.
         Every slammed car door was someone coming to get me. My husband pushed me, he didn’t
         mean for my upper lip to cut open. My lip is numb for about a half inch along the scar.

         I saw a coffin emerge from the ceiling ready to hold me within its three dimensions. Pure
        determination until the light came, and my husband would take me to the emergency room. In
        the emergency room, I would ask the doctor about taking two pills together. I wondered if it was
        safe to ask him or if he would report me. I held onto my husband’s arm. I was afraid of our large
        casement windows. I imagined throwing my body through. Happily, I thought to myself, you
        have always been a coward.

A Stone Is A Stone

Eyes closed, I reached

to caress the side of your head

where bifocals pleated skin and hair.

Your body turned, and told me

you were rid of me. How do

I rid myself of myself?

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