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 -