She sits on the counter,
feet in the sink.
She tells me about razors and
her father, of the beginning fists.
A mourner's veil of cigarette smoke
mimics a halo while it is in monotone
she tells me everything. Shrugging through memories--
in a hurry to get through all of them
to skip to the front of the line because she thinks
she can outrun it.

She mouthed the word ****,
And I saw children.
Wide-eyed in the closet,
under the bed,
in the corner--
I imagined that their shuddering
little wet-sobs
sound like hers.

I wrote something beautiful
on the skin over his spine.
Counting all the little
love-you-bumps
until I found the trembling song
of his lower lip--
then he kissed me
and made all my beautiful words,
hush.

When your mouth moves I remember
what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page
and sliced my hand on the edge of words.
Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings
salt-lick strong.

I am four again. I will not breathe
until you untangle me slowly
from you, from your own undoings
that have become the paper wrappings
around the bird-cage of my heart.