Self-Portrait as Sarcophagus with Nail File and Anger
Hollowed myself out
for the shrunken me.
Filing down each bone
toothpick thin, scooping
the dust into your hand.
I buffed my skin
til it shined, stiffened
into a body shaped lid
over the soft green rot inside.
It felt so stupid to be afraid
of you. Still does.
Thinking I would be safe
if I became the place to hide.
When the ornate pattern
on my marble cheeks
pressed against your palms,
you asked why I was cold.
* * * * *
The End
Your father fried fish in the kitchen
behind the couch where we sat —
the sharp scent of onions, garlic, cinnamon
an excuse for your eyes welling up.
When your parents left, you covered your head
with a blanket. And said, Just leave.
Just like that. And when I held your feet
in my hand, begged you not to make me,
you began crying harder: Go, go. Please.
It is not easy for me to say —
thank you. For once you gave me
a door. I walked out, into the world.
* * * * *
Body Language
This is how it is. The houseplant
you named remains on my desk.
In your absence, it develops
root rot and in dying is unrooted
from its name. Last fall, a sole seed-core
buried among the pile of dead mangos
I stacked beside the fence sprouted
a sapling. I told you I meant to pull it
for months, buy a pot, and plant it
for us to have fruit next season.
Then a landscaper cut it clean in half.
From the rotted houseplant, I cut
the remaining green leaves and place them
in jars of water on my desk. Each night
I take them out, wash the browning stems
and hold them in my palm for a while.
At least when the stems rot and break
there’s a name for their breaking.