a car crosses the gravel & I’m seven years old again,

waiting up

for my mother to make it home from work. I dig a hole

in the backyard

& sing a little song into it. Raven writes, my grandmother

tucks me in at night,

draws her own head balanced on a pillow,

while her tv whispers yes. Just now,

I tried to eat my orange slowly,

to sense the pulp gently untying, to savor it as if it was

my lover’s tongue, then I’m back

with this puzzle of orange skin. A boy, his desk

isolated from the rest, asks,

is wind fast-moving air

or something moving fast through the air?

Peach

the peach in your pocket still     damp from the faucet

its weight swings into your chest

you walk up Mechanic     the ocean still sleeping

it burns your flesh where it touches

you’ll wake him up with it     press it into his eye

anytime, he said, anytime

a radio somewhere     the grass hasn’t died

one eye shuts daylight the peach to your cheek

stippled with night     where it held to the tree

bruised where it fell hard to earth

bite away at the bruise     spit it over the fence

like whiskey his kiss like whiskey

tear away at the skin     the fruit clings to the pit

juice catches & runs in your fingers

over sandy tar lean     to take the last mouthful

wipe your chin with your hand     roll the pit with your tongue

spit it into the grass     before taking his stairs

You moved me through each room

—after hypnotherapy

All the rooms are empty, as if no one

had ever lived in them. You ask

where I am & I say, the kitchen,

the windows broken, the curtains

ragged, dust thick on the counters

& dead birds fill the sink. What house

& I say, it’s just a place we’re staying

between houses, just a woman

my mother works with. Find the stairs,

you tell me & I climb them on all

fours, a door off to the right,

the knob level with my eyes, I

reach up to turn it, I’d forgotten

about needing to reach. Inside my mother sits

before a mirror, fixing her hair. I lie

on the bed & watch, inside the only room

the sun seems to enter, the only room

lit up and clean. She says, I’m going out

and I want you to be good.

The whole time I know

I can lift my hands, open my eyes & walk

back into today, but I never try.

Fugue

If I think hard I can remember

beginning with your lips, then moving

to your eyes, then everywhere else I kissed

how sometimes after we fell asleep

we’d hold onto each other until

something inside me would waken

& my hands find your breasts

my mouth your nipples,

maybe I’d be dreaming about quicksand

& in my panic I’d reach too far overhead