Emma

Maybe we kill ourselves
because we hate our bodies.
I try to wring something out
of the day. Use words like naked,
nubile. I am counting my cards,
blowing spit bubbles in the dark.
Rooted to this spot by the sad
pioneer family in my hair.
We are dove-gray and pear-soft,
seek shelter beneath
the gingerbread trim. I am bent,
bewildered. What with all the priests
running fingers through my hair
and using words like boiserie.
Like diadem. How they sniff out
my sins from miles away.
Lately I’ve taken to stealing
white knee-highs and blue corsets.
My thighs littered with moths.
Maidens. I fear I’ll die
before telling my mother
of the woman who crosses out
all the verbs. You finger the rings
in my ears, the loops at my lips.
I’ll seek my father’s ghost
in every dark head of hair,
shadows alighting
beneath a pair of black eyes.
Whisper, Welcome home.
We’ve been waiting forever.