Alice

(a lost girl poem)

My mother burns my face with the iron,
my corkscrew curls turned limp in fog.
Our white pinafores gone green
in wet, sodden grass. That time my father
lifted me by the leg, beating me in front
of all the neighbors. I am tormented
by the sadness of mahogany end tables.
Even the doors are dangerous.
At the funerals our grandmothers’ hands
rest at the napes of our necks. Making
sure we behave. That we believe.
Grandpa lets me sleep in their bed
while Grandma wrings the house of devils.
The lamps lit low all night.
The portraits of Jesus in slow yellow light.