pluff mud in my nails
shrimp shells, crab claws, in the pail
Grandma Lolly's cookin'
sunday grub, us four cousins
pulling nets in tidal marshes

The cloud in the corner
The fat pen you bought
   with the money you made
   from selling your step dad’s wallet
The passion inside of
   your stuffed bear at night
A victim of the knife

Like the girl who stuck herself
   in the pluff mud in the sewage swamp
   behind the house next door
In the swamp before
   there was a house next door
Her naked knees,
   When they pulled her out
   of her pants,
And the mud on her thighs above them
Under the spotlight,
   the limbless savior
The unremembered god
   when her legs would come at night
Faceless and frightened
Detached and devoted
A perpetual image that didn’t move
   but made you shake
   when the house was quiet
Two stone pillars that couldn’t be named
   but made you take your clothes off
   in the dark
   beside your window

And what if you had gotten caught
   wearing your mother’s clothes
   lying alone in bed
What if you had gotten caught
   wearing the mud girl’s underwear
   when they found you dead
   in the morning
   in your bed

My Lissy
She is sweet
Pluff fizzy

She lets go of the notebook, and
of course it falls, lands with a
“pluff” on the comforter as she walks
past on her way out of the room.

Abandoned? How so?

Don’t make her say it. . . . “I left my sons, moved
away from them so,” she says, “I could find myself.”

Don’t make her say it: “I will leave you too as
I have been left. First him, then him, then another
him. I will gravitate toward you, dance with you in
twinned orbit. But you must know I will let go.”

It must be said: “I can’t be your anchor. I am
too intemperate, too much like the weather.
Having been left, I will leave. Having left, I am gone.
May I be forgiven if by leaving I cause you any harm.”

Now that that’s been said, let’s begin
again—pick up where we left off: “Your tea
is cold,” she says. “Would you like me
to warm it up for you?”