Something about the way Nana looked at me
on the day that is supposed to be all mine
put sharp stickers behind both my eyes,
and I had to turn them toward the dirt,
pretending I had not seen her face deflate
more than green balloons on the mailbox
that sagged heavy with my shame.  

Must be the flu goin’ ‘round, she told me,
stacking paper plates, napkins, pausing once
to brush back a lock of my hair that had
caught the wind and broken loose.  

All my friends must have the flu. I’m certain
they caught it that day— one month, four days ago—
the moment my daddy’s car parted with I-64 East.
Their eyes harden at me on the playground;
their arms can’t form a proper hug.  

I look back at Nana, and I know she feels
the sharp stickers too.  But her eyes meet
mine, a trembling hand reaches out,
finds mine and holds on surprisingly tight.   

Hand in hand—as we are making our way
up the wooden porch steps, back through the front door,
curling up in the afghan Nana made,
trying to forget about the uneaten cake,
the forlorn balloons at the end of the drive—
we come to the peace in the eye of the storm.
I cling to Nana; she clings to me. We doze.  

I’m above the cold currents with Daddy,
one arm wrapped tight around his broad shoulders,
other hand clutching a green balloon. We float for
a few moments, high above the river, then drift—
bit by bit—down toward the roiling water.

Who’s that, she asked of the portrait. I said nobody I knew, just an interesting painting that caught my eye. I didn’t mention it could have been you, even after a closer look. You’re not as tall, not as underfed thin. The red hair you sported in the middle of our life turned back to blonde before too long, and your breasts are far more to my tastes. Still, the two of you could be confused, if not for twins, at least for sisters. One of you a stranger holding no memories, one of you a ghost presenting far too many. 

Sleep m o s e y s on stilts                
of twisted silk threads,            
gossamer that threatens            
to give out at any second
before it makes its way
to your weighted lids.

Ambien dreams tumble off
each bedroom wall so awake,
cascading into brain-folds
aching to rest, richocheting
from morning to endless night
and back again, flinging
back and forth the bloody
boomerang of grief and glee.

as each day strips away

my last shreds of innocence,

i wish i could’ve grown up

in a reality outside your own.

Backyard grave: father,
mother, children, auntie, niece,
and humble mistress.

Tree tire swing baby,
swaddled broken neck and hand,
sad to be alive.

Take life with a grimace,
suffer it with a smile.
Radiate it from your face
one thousand watts
and someone
(surely someone)
will believe it’s true. 

One with the clouds, the sun,
inhaling, soaking in freedom,
launching into the space I’d discovered first,
soaring as one with the enchanted carpet
whose global positioning system flew us—as one—
smack into the cuckoo’s nest.  

Lost my oneness, surrounded by all of them,
those who hadn’t  felt the sun in months,
didn’t remember what it felt like on their skin.
I acquiesced to showers without razors,
doors without locks, shoes without laces.  

Days were Dali’s clocks oozing into weeks
as the rays beat down, stiffening up as the leaves fell,
seizing me in their grasp, dangling my dreams
on a stick before my eyes, genetically modified,
drug-enhanced carrots that taunted me
behind my eyelids as I nightmared
from sundown ‘til dawn.  

The classic mistake: scribing it neatly
onto a card labeled unpleasant and shelving it
in my mental library: past. Keeping it smothered
beneath ridges and valleys of torn, bruised skin
lets it smolder in the veins, consuming budding
notions of self-worth before chance permits them
to blossom into the brain. 

My sense of mono is blurred, ripped,
divided into bi, stretched from pole to pole
standing at each end of twenty-seven years
of late nights and later mornings,
pillowcases drenched slick with tears and dreams,
fingernails shredded and torn off at the quick,
holes punched in weak drywall,
laughter resonating from my core
filling a gulf words can’t seem to span.

At your doctor’s appointment, convey
all your symptoms, how the last admission officer
referred to your daughter as your granddaughter.
Ask your own questions when appropriate.
What is the import of those x-rays? Why does
the receptionist display a studio portrait
of her Pekinese in such an ostentatious frame?
Explain how all the campuses are cold.
During your last visit, the head-slapping wind
watered your eyes so you skipped the cafeteria
and instead ate at Tiny’s Diner and Lottery Headquarters.
Admit that your daughter has narrowed her choice
of colleges to three, maybe four, maybe three.
This time next year, she will be gone from the house.
According to your policy, you have no insurance for that.