Before She Licked Her Fingers
Each and every afternoon, the barefooted woman comes
to the wall somewhere in between the kitchen
and the living. From a palm birthed from Japanese silk,
Mother, Wife, Aphrodite presses down on the feet of her children --
three halos for five sons. Every family is an ink print
with only two pieces of yellowed duct tape for support. Flat.
He brought her back a knockoff from Kyoto and she thought
it was authentic. There are lines and there are more lines
when she and him wished for circles (spheres?) She is the guardian
without a messiah, naked and unable, declaring statelessness. Could she be
Italian, with olive skin and olive oil in the cupboards? Or is she simply
American, a cinnamon and rosemary blend?
She gave birth five times on the velvet couch that summer,
throwing it all away for the garbage men to dispose of.
He painted a picture and she put it on the wall.