Crazy Glue is nice
For things with
Clean breaks
Though sometimes
The reassembly
Is Picassoesque
But sometimes
Parts go missing
And nothing can
Be done
Still that item
Quite beyond repair
Must rest in a
Drawer or closet
In the dusty dark
Waiting
For nothing
Dreaming of being
A whole chess piece
Or teacup
Or decorative
Lighthouse
To be strategically
Moved or pressed to
The lips or
Silently adored.
There is a 12 foot yellow bowling pin
On the street where I live.
It is not my home.
I have stopped cleaning entirely.
I make myself eat a grilled cheese.
I do see that I have a shower.
There is a fish hook on the couch.
I leave it there.
I don't kill palmetto bugs
When I see them.
I envy them for feeling so comfortable,
So brave to scamper in the fluorescent
Light, while I talk on eggshells
And pack my getaway bag in the basement.
He told me this was my home, to put
My breath and fingerprints on everything
He owned. Funny, he said nothing about
Blood.
I pick off my fingernails in sleep.
On rising, the jagged parts fall into
Deep marigold carpet. I hit my knees
Retrieving every sliver. I will not
Leave a scrap of me in this house.
I scour and scrub and sweep.
I will not leave a fingerprint
Or a fog of breath
Or a cherry strand of hair.
I dare not leave a trace of me
To suffer
Not even my perfume in the air.
Perfect disappearance, no sign
Of foul play. Even my bruises, I
Take with me
On my independence day.