II.
a ring of mist,
grew like the five-o’clock shadow
around his mouth
on the brittle glass window pane,
edged in peeling emerald lattice
the hands of the wall clock stamped “what if”
onto the curve of his amber eyes
as he twisted in his fingers the soft cotton curtains
she sewed from the tablecloth her mother sent.
IV.
the rusted faucet runs and runs and runs and runs
and i don’t notice that i’ve stopped scrubbing at her favourite red pie plate
until she stops crying and reaches over to close the hissing tap.
the water is silent; the pipes are still
but my mind runs and runs and runs and runs
I.
to the black alley lined with sticky, crusted dumpsters
that held her in its raging arms
after three men spread her legs
and printed her back in its concrete.
