My mother waters the tomato & pepper plants. I steal drinks from the penny-taste of the garden hose. It is my favorite drink. I am six & think to cross the street by myself from time to time, but never do. I am six, my sister is five, & we hide inside clothing racks at the store just to feel the black-sick fill our round bellies when we get lost, lost, lost from our mother. I am six & I am laughing with a mouthful of cashews. I think nuts is the funniest word I have ever heard. I am six & I break all my mother’s lipsticks & glue them together & put them back in her bathroom drawer. She’ll never notice. Sometimes I find sad envelopes, the ones with red and blue stripes, meaning these envelopes fly, meaning thin feathers, meaning bird with a little worm in the beak. Envelopes from her father, I think—she snatches them from my hand & says, No, no, where did you get these? Now put them back.

On Listening to Your Teacher Take Attendance

Breathe deep even if it means you wrinkle

your nose from the fake-lemon antiseptic

of the mopped floors and wiped-down

doorknobs. The freshly soaped necks

and armpits. Your teacher means well,

even if he butchers your name like

he has a bloody sausage casing stuck

between his teeth, handprints

on his white, sloppy apron. And when

everyone turns around to check out

your face, no need to flush red and warm.

Just picture all the eyes as if your classroom

is one big scallop with its dozens of icy blues

and you will remember that winter your family

took you to the China Sea and you sank

your face in it to gaze at baby clams and sea stars

the size of your outstretched hand. And when

all those necks start to crane, try not to forget

someone once lathered their bodies, once patted them

dry with a fluffy towel after a bath, set out their clothes

for the first day of school. Think of their pencil cases

from third grade, full of sharp pencils, a pink pearl eraser.

Think of their handheld pencil sharpener and its tiny blade.

The Origin of Feathers on My Windshield

The pelicans dip their brilliant sloppy bills

into their tired shoulders and there is a certain bridge

in Florida where you have to be careful not to hit them

as they fly across windshields. I lost the only picture

of me taken by a man who used to be the boy I loved

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