In the curve of the apple the child saw a 
      presentiment
of her life with them– a smooth cheek, 
      reflecting nothing
in its dull shine, the juice’s sour bite only within.
Words flew around her head each morning 
      like black birds
flapping from one carrion to the other.
The child couldn’t leave the dishes to soak.
She washed them as they grew soiled, 
      so no scrap
would lie neglected for long. Living with them
was like standing still
while two dressmakers picked over 
      every stitch
of what she wore, with bleeding fingers,
till the last scrap fell away into threads.
Should she move? Should she tear
the draperies away, or pick up a needle
and stab along with them, crying, “This is how
I want it mended, over here!”?
Meanwhile spoons scraped the bottoms 
      of bowls
and the water in the cups went down.
There wasn’t much time
before they all had to leave.


published in A Talent for Sadness (Turning Point Books, 2003), and in Hanging Loose