from November
Go back to our Pleasant Ridge Cemetery,
perch yourself on the stone wall
and reach under the crumbling headstone
behind you.
Unearth the filthy months
I wasted with you,
and pour them back into my hands.
Mother, don’t slide into the middle
of the couch, between the lumpy, gray cushions,
cradling your stomach
and soaking the fabric with your face,
Waiting for his return.
Father, don’t take me to your apartment
to meet your girlfriend
and stand around in a bare kitchen.
My eyes will wander around the cavernous space.
There’s nothing but empty shelves in the dimly lit fridge
and a loveseat couch, too small for you.
Peel an orange.
I can feel the citrus kiss I took from you.
Let the seeds swim under your lips.
You’re pressing my hipbone
and the seeds are spilling down my neck.
Let’s bring the folding chairs
back to the stone bank of the Three Bridges River
and I’ll tell you I’m sorry,
I’m awful for wearing that lace high-collared dress
to hide the purple blooming bruises on my neck
that weren’t from you.
