Aught, no. 2 (1998)

Melissa Fondakowski

This last time, I am holy:

fist-marked forehead
the shadow underneath
draped over knees

crouched on the couch,

skin glimpse of
red reflection hands:
the other touch

we have forgotten.

Heavy ebb directs:
angry feet smell
like the factory floor

moving into my mouth,

this placemat tongue
the target I kneel to;
two argue:

I don’t know tall.

Lunch box applesauce
thrown, explodes in
explosion, white confession,

mother-bent elbows

yellow-blue halo
swollen eyes water;
she licks his belt:

get out of my house —

our small tile lives
feel it slither south,
yelling, a brown spot,

walking the halls,

eyes cocked low, soft;
I knock in my dream.
The rosary below

her thigh-bed edge,

wine on the night table,
marred shadow slack
swings standing there:

the floor I feel

in the photographs
sinking over my eyes
tightly throws it:

no more white space,

only fine lines,
five navy half-moons,
and seven beds.

I scream, sun-blued

shift my pelvis:
cracked closet door,
hairshirt wool.

Am I sorry

eye fat mornings
wanting to dream
on my belly

that is a love

but I can’t wake up
curved snakes petrify
— don’t wake me —

the crucifix in full color:

what’s going on
when they keep it?
If I could scream.

She covered them

with women shorn in
sin definition
thanking the first chance,

purple and bruised

around my neck
the tight clean slate
tight one time

lights up glowing

like a cigarette:
him hitting her
almond-welt shadow

I am wearing my sins now

with lace and fringe,
red line raised
in the back room

trying to squeeze

the limitations;
to slay:
a child is not something,

she said, monkish,

a thousand ripe times:
miracles never dwell
at the picture sill.

Still, my eardrums hear

though I can’t remember,
the marrow, remaining,
water-proofed.