I pack up our past in twisted Goodwill bags, dump

them in the basement with broken Christmas lights.

Take stock of useless objects; fists of silverware, slack

folds of bed linen. Bookshelves grieve dusty paperbacks,

absent as our son’s milk teeth. Once you’ve moved out,

an army of ants move in, tiny bodies spill from flaking

baseboards, hoarding breakfast scraps in silent defiance.

For the sake of the children, I will not use chemicals,

attempt a lemon juice attack. With rubber gloves I am

quietly murderous, praying for a citrus victory, committed

to a clean slate. But still they come. Abandoning diplomacy

I relent and purchase traps. Follow the trail to your nest,

crouch behind hydrangeas, my shame lit blue by mocking

streetlamps. Watch you with her; this new woman, shining

like a freshly polished faucet. For the sake of the children

I will not make a scene, mouth hot tin, fingers clasp the bait.

Back home, I keep the lights on, flush out the colony,

sweeping bodies of the dead dried fast in the broom’s teeth.

A mess of blood and crumbs, I ignore it like a bolted door.

Seek shelter when the sirens start

the BBC intones, as I worry

my iron-on patches, watch

childhood evaporate, ice blue

in the late-night news glare.

From the kitchen window

I picture a mushroom cloud

above the local church spire

doorstep milk bottles melting

in the white heat of impact

while Dad props up the bar

at the Red Lion, carpet sticky

from decades of spilled pints

& broken promises. After school

we lie down dead in the street

with crowds demanding peace.

I’m tired of protesting nuclear war

while indifference is on display

in Woolworths’ windows, cut-price

deals for 99p. Rather be home

watching Dynasty, dreaming

of American sunshine, feathered  

blond hair. I feel the acid burn

of Mum’s rebuke, unspeakable things

happen every day, an upturned pram

a toxic river. She’ll hold my hand,

explain Dad’s leaving again. I sit silent

as the sky, waiting for dust to settle.

Wading out beyond the estuary, searching for the spot

we buried our childhood. From the jetty I see sisters

beautiful & misshapen as river rocks. Nudge memories

loose with my tongue, slices of our house just visible

among reeds. An egret squats by the slate wall, bothersome

as a beady-eyed boy. His beak shows me where we dug

for worms, wings bold & foolish as a playground dare.

Polished our foul moods till they sparkled in the pocket

of my navy windbreaker while she hurled curses

at clouds, waiting for the river to prove itself. Mostly

she was mute beneath chestnut bangs I cut too short

while Mum slept off the fizz of vodka tonics. Speaking

for her around adults, I’d whisper advice gleaned from three

extra years of life. Forgive her with stale Custard Creams,

knowing she chose silence to keep the peace. Remember the girls

we were as I lace stiff work shoes, find her fingers in the ooze

when I unload the dishwasher, sense her smirk when I break

a glass, if the pram won’t fold. Crashing through waves

of morning when the baby cries, I wonder if she’s happy,

whether she lines her pockets with pebbles. Half-formed

vowels rumble across my ribcage, secrets surfacing as I dredge

for our remains. What would she say to me now she’s ready?

I.

At Piazza Lovatelli I watch kids steal scorched

hubcaps, palms slick with molten Vespa chrome

as August meanders down the filthy Tiber. Impossible

to sleep since Marxists murdered Moro, his body folded

in the trunk of a beat-up Renault. I wear my Nikon

loaded like an AR-70, desires unclear beyond survival

hot water, 35mm film. Enclosed are Polaroids, back arched

my forehead cropped. I am a riot, an opera, a menace -

II.

Sandro says art that matters is armed and naked

on the streets. Give me a black glove, a white feather

from an angel’s wing. Stilettos of red-lipped women

live in the scaffold of my spine. Neighbors serenade us

with fragrant curses. I haven’t heard from you in weeks.

Forget about me and I’ll fly back to New York, rifle

through your garbage, make a scene in front of the super.

Tell Mama I found panna cotta, but it won’t keep -

III.

You are capable of loving and distorting love, kicking

away the chair beneath me. I threw my yellow sandal

from the window of Sandro’s moving car, curious if

he’d turn back or watch it cook on asphalt, sunny-side

up. I see you in alley shadows, smell your just-washed

hair in the looming pines. I lack courage but some days

it’s crawling all over me with bare feet and beautiful toes -

Better to leave the party first, craving

the drama of an open window, solitude

of a blank page. Spaniels at my heel, we stomp

up the overgrown path, smothering the promise

of June. I ignore peals of laughter from the patio

dodge the murky pond where I drowned

childhood playthings, stagnant water reflects

all I won’t miss. Father’s disapproval, thinly

veiled in a cigar fog of billiards & single malt.

Mother’s quivering ostrich feathers mocking

me with that hateful nickname. My brothers’ filthy

fingers staining sketchbooks with redcurrants

& equations. I scuff sensible shoes against drains

clogged with expectations, clasp my No 2 pencil.

This is the real me - not Prim but proud. Intrepid

sprinter, slowing at the turnstile to curse unforgiving

brogues. Slamming the clumsy gate to stride through

neighboring brambles, refusing to bide time in England’s

yellow kitchens, dreaming of great love affairs, secret

betrayals. Fearsome warrior in jodhpurs & waistcoat

my brown hair unkempt, taming green parakeets atop

marble pergolas, mounting thoroughbreds with celestial

manes. I listen for hyenas chattering in French. By autumn

I’ll prove the party wrong. The spaniels howl as I unlace my shoes.

I.

Funny you should mention the flour. I swept it from the sidewalk

after the Pillsbury truck hit the hydrant on South Main, the block

dusted like a Bavarian village, Roberto shouting up from the bakery

put your damn shoes on & stop day-dreaming! He gave me a broom

& dregs of cold coffee. Later I run my finger through filthy flour

lick the tarmac, flecked with egg whites & milk. Imagine the cake

I’ll make if you write me back - vanilla buttercream, frosted golden

with strands of my hair. Yes, I am alive on this February morning

holding the big hands of the world. I’ll leave the window open

in case you write -

II.

Hands above the stove flame for warmth, I load sticky film

check the floor for knives. I think it’s Wednesday. My body

seethes inside the skirting board. I press glass against my thighs

brush cobwebs from my ribcage, arrange work boots, treads

smudge hungrily against my torso. Half-finished tuna sandwich

the air pale & thin. My camera captures a mousy girl, hair

disheveled & cruel, barely alive.  I’m at my worst again.

Dad stares at my clavicle, squeezes limes in my soda, whispering

See how light works?  Cannot keep his eyes from the frame

such a long exposure -

III.

In my dream your skin maps routes to the Moshassuck River

clotheslines cajole in an Easter breeze. I know you still love her.

Outrunning  grief over the slope of Smith Hill, I lean toward

the camera while you hesitate, my red shirt unbuttoned. Grip

the tripod, you watch me bare teeth, my body bulletproof.

Before you left I reapplied lipstick, mauve fingers smearing

sky. Betrayal in your gait, my cleverness disappearing

at the summit with clouds that plunder then vanish -

after Eva Hesse

‍

From my hospital bed

I read the weather report

so I can imagine you

wearing your tan

trench coat with

missing buttons

in Riverside Park

my headaches are seven feet

of latex I stretch them

till they hang suspended

spend days smothering

irregular edges my scalp

thick with wood shavings

in your absence I am

my own materials

hours crackle & drag

you write to me on legal paper

yellow lined one sheet

longer than the rest because

you have so much to say

it’s absurd this tumor

resin thick I read

the doctor’s report rigid

rectangles cheesecloth vowels

anything is possible

everything is worth the risk

even my recovery a little red

lighthouse resolute

at the edge

of the Hudson River