Replay
I go under — a tulip dipped.
My spilled-milk
dress spreads around me
and does anyone send a net out
to catch me, to pull me to the surface?
I’m in the water, and in my memory
moving around the aching land
where my grandmother once
lived. I see her in her nightgown,
feel her hand — a jolt to my face —
the pain, her hand —
a cold compress, and I feel
the land, the land where she lived,
Spanish moss hanging
from the trees. She puts
me to bed in a pile
of leaves. Where is my mother?
Behind her trailer, behind god’s
house? I slide down the grey dirt
hill to the river, ask
an alligator for safe passage,
and a bird of paradise flies
above my head, says
something I don’t understand.
Come out of the dream, out
of the water. The moon above me
pulls some tide inside me. It remembers
me and remembers my mother
flicking a cigarette into a fire pit.
* * * * *
Things We Believe as Children
Like if I believed in God,
I would end up a child bride
for David Koresh. I dreamed
King David told me: the firmament
lives between your soft, skinny
thighs, and I took it as a compliment.
I asked him for the difference
between life and death. I asked him
would he eventually burn
down my compound, my children
inside. I asked him
what if I fall into a grave with no bell
tied around my toe? What if I get
to the underworld as an overripe fruit?
He looked at me through golden wire-
rimmed glasses and asked me
why would you want to be a ghost?
* * * * *
The Séance
Two women clasp hands
behind their backs. Their faces
move side to side.
One orbits around the other,
a moon. One speaks
for the other, a feral sound.
We see five little girls
with hands held, circling
them. We see animal bones
and folded pieces of paper.
We hear the voices of our
fathers going in and out
of the circle. We are not
ready for this. We break
our gaze. We hope for
the circle to be broken.