What Rooms to Enter and Why

I poked

my smallest

finger into

your ear. 

“I don’t feel anything anymore.”

A bright yellow

hatchback. 

The sound of water falling, the sound

of a child

sobbing two rooms away.  

The email

from the hospital

said to bring yogurt,

not to ask

certain questions.

Ghost Whisperer. “Not that dress – the other one.”

I traced a moustache

on your upper lip. 

“Get in, we’re going to be late.”

As you slept.

your skin

looked

liked dust, like the hull

of an old canoe.

The nurse told me I wasn’t welcome anymore. 

CSI: Los Angeles.  “Who’s the bitch now?”

How it feels

to be buried. 

What

happens to your

hands, after. 

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