Where Her Scars
She moves the cough into her elbow
turns the cushions into tiles
which blend with the crust beneath
the Ducan Phyfe among all those tiny O’s,
she thinks bagel seeds, with a place to grow,
gone. She faces the clock with a face, grabbing
the sweep of the second hand. The missed glass
slivers wink, all the beauty of broken, irreparable.
She resists her desire to line the driveway
with china and used soup bones. Her dark
nostalgia sings in a toddler’s voice, spatters
the walls. Running out, she drags kite tails, running
to ground, her heart turned a garden:
basil, tomatoes and passion flowers.