Nobody put any one of themselves first,
just the bottle.
My mother, genteel as she was,
wrote sketchpad poems on how alcohol must feel
shrouded in a chifforobe. If I were the author
each stanza would only say “warm”
because such is how I felt
folding myself among the goblets as a child.
On dress hangers she had no use for
but to dream to abort me,
I hung and thought about how laconic my kin was
not asking what state I was in the past week.
(Mississippi,
I would announce. M-I-S-S I-S-S I-P-P-I
as many meters as letters in its name
and I burnt my calf on an old man’s motorcycle:
he kissed it better, a stranger did
though your bureau’s dirt chocked below my nails.
)
A false god set my parakeet free that trip
at least that is what mother held when I got back –
Oh, many days ago, azure feathers
spanned in a conduit
right by the lady’s home, you know the one
you tell me that her carpets look like bacon strips
(once eleven years ago I had,
as many years as in Mississippi’s name).
Had it been so many months
from the episode when I accidentally mumbled
“I hate you” and never regretted it as I should have?
Had it been so many hours since I wondered
why I could not hate her
but she could hate me, or say so “accidentally”?
Nobody put any one of themselves first,
just the bottle
even I was careful not to shatter when we shared a
ligneous hiding space, regal, misunderstood.
But on returning from Mississippi,
(M-I-S-S I-S-S I-P-P-I
One Mississippi Two Mississippi Three Mississippi Four)
I hoisted myself like a stiff jacket and
realized no one could see the difference between
red wine and a child's blood, in laced imperial stripes.