Hanging Holly Hobbie
I own my own
sleeping head, invent
a rocking bed to shut
lidless eyes in.
It doesn't fit, this
stupid calico, its straps
wind like bad wind.
I do not dress myself.
You cannot blame
a dolly for her state-
ments, state of mind.
I would choose another
name, Holly never became
rare, or wanted. Maybe
Juniper, Pearl, or Trina
best of all piñata, for it fits tightly.
I am strung, neckwise, completely
airborne, on a steeple-spire,
child's bedpost, hung
limply after she throws
me to red shag, interminably
amused by my trampolining
hair, yellow flag, banana
peel, paper streamer.
I want my bed to sleep
in, soft satin pillow, not this
high rise plunging, deep
death of elevation.
dead sister
I do not feel moved
to speak of her
again, after a
bruise has swollen it
is not necessary to
conceal. I cannot
recall any word that
was thrown between us
two, or three must have
lingered for a year or so -
Not unlike the broken
plaster crumbs, now hidden
in dust ruffles, then blown in
through my nose. I exhale
them in sympathy. Carry
instead a word learned
slowly, as if the making
increased amplification -
she has become infinite and
primal. That unsought blow
left such a scarce color, on
either side of my face, soft
hues, looking as if brushed
on with a light hand, poised
over painter's canvas.
Sister is no artist, and the sheer
force of it claimed my darkest
mood, broke over
my features in purple shades
no gold tones left.
