..
last night I made a man
out of pillows and forgotten
fragments of clothes
we'd pushed into my drawers.
I held my pillow-man's hand
and made sure he wasn't too warm
because it is summer;
I'm on the second floor;
and that was always your
biggest complaint.
this morning I tried to shower
but would turn off the water and run
like a soapy dog, complete with
loyal tail wagging, to the door
thinking you'd come knocking.
You hadn't.
tomorrow will taste like
the food of a week ago
and I'll wear sunglasses,
which, if you know me,
(and you do)
will seem out of context
and like a little girl
playing dress up.
I know there are
I found an old map of my life in the closet today,
worn almost to the point of tearing.
It was burnt at one end, my birth I suppose.
Pieces of it still crumble when I'm not careful.
The first roads are drawn in crayon and lead only in circles.
There is a picture of a man sitting at a table shaped like the moon
somewhere around my sixth birthday.
My father perhaps. I don't remember.
By the age of eleven the first small houses appear,
my friend Tommy with his German Shepard shooting cap guns,
further down, real guns, another hole. Of course
none of this is to scale. The first graves appears at age
twelve, my grandmother is dr