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.