Cora

On Wednesdays I dream of trysts,
on Thursdays tuberculosis.
When we were young, this terrible sadness,
like hands, had never touched us.
Something hushed yet fevered.
You swear death sounds like
the moment a cigarette hits water,
that beautiful transparent hiss.
I dream of cartwheels and hangings
as we fuck softly beneath the eaves.
My mother folds towels,
cries at imperfect corners.
Thinks no one can hear her moaning.
Meanwhile I'm haunted by chicken bones
and Chanel, dreaming of spiders the size
of piñatas. They dance on the kitchen
ceiling, bodies soft and crinkled
as tissue paper. Grandma lying
in her bed, head cradled by gray smoke.
The pillow shaped like a horseshoe
keeping her curls intact.