I held an apple with my ankles.  
boyish, I guess, very still.

these two girls, new to me, in my sister’s room

they were
with their hands
talking.

about tomorrow, or maybe
a spoon.  I could imagine

mother, by me, loved.

dad sitting sober as a fence, looking to bite
before dinner
a hard sweet.

nightgowns, drying, the last of our water
on four legs.

my sister
a curtain
sheer

to the angel wake of my bones.  the mute

rub
of soap
in a stranger’s
bath.