and I smiled in my daze of fuzzy that
2nd grade teachers and dance teachers
surround me with.
Her fingernails long and peeling
dark red paint,
the sound of flipping.
A man standing at the end of a tunnel.
A view of New York streets from a high window.
Close up of a blue eye with pink shadow.
Which one of these feel like your life?
Her voice is the moon. The dishwasher.
The table cloth has flowers that spin if you look at them
I pulled out the picture of a broken bike frame leaning against
a clay wall. The paper was smooth,
glossy like a photograph,
my hands felt unfamiliar and a piece of my hair
fell against my neck and gave me a chill.
Okay, choose two more.
Her voice was the plastic ring slipping
off the milk carton.
Two more pictures.
The barbed wire
tangled at the top of a fence,
and the tea cups and paint brushes scattered
on the old wooden table.