Vanessa

There is no translation for the soft
of your hands. I’m haunted by women’s
names other than my own. Veronica,
Lucille, a dead grandmother playing
the ukulele. I can smell the coyotes
coming from miles away. Mud cakes
in the ruts of tires, the softened
crevices of my body. She’s a
nightmare of sex and sequins. Of
anodyne and alum. I cry out at the
slightest disturbance. Thunderstorms,
sirens. Your grip at my ankles. In this
light my pain has a lovely tinge. Blue
as a bruise. As a girl lying on her
back. My aunt, her ugly prim mouth.
How we’d find her walking naked
through the rose garden. Mom asks if
I want to live with her or Dad,
my body arcing upwards, tonguing
the clouds. Your fingers blurring,
smudging, spreading the night open.
I extract the stones from my mouth
like you told me to. Arrange them
in a cross on the dresser. A trapdoor.
Pull the knots from my hair and revel
in their delicious sting. Our bodies
circling furiously to a waltz
no one can name.