by Emily Skaja
from flying out of my mouth.
I am 25. I paint the door blue. I go in when he tells me
to stay out. Next to a billboard
in Philadelphia that says Your Message Here,
I am sewn into a dress. On Broad Street, ravens
lurk on the Divine Lorraine Hotel as if to say
Always a corpse flower, never a bride.
Facing south, I can make myself apologize
for anything. My voice is thick—a shroud of bells.
But will I listen. What I hear in the dark
is my own blood stalking me
like a drunk boy wild on cheap gin
swinging his hammer
to nail a tree swallow flat to a barn door.
A bird is a vessel. It carries a field.
There are nights when I sleep on the couch
lift macramé lace to my cheek from a hope chest.
Outside, a teenager shoots a teenager shoots a teenager
The cops come to measure the street.
They ask me, What did you see? I saw a hole in the whole of the picture.
When he comes home late from his fight at the bar,
I hold a cold rag steady to his knuckles. I think I can love someone
who cares enough to bruise for me.
He touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth,
pulls back my lip to consider my teeth.
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