on a white hill reaching

into the fridge for a white pint

 

while rivers flooded

from what we spilled. Grandmother

 

said one thing when we married

that we should never go to bed

 

angry, holding something dark

and tight like a tennis ball

 

to our chests. She slept

in a separate room, locked

 

her door tight, washed

his laundry till it was clean and kept

 

quiet as our house, quiet

as a jar of olives – my microwave still

 

blinks, a lake of milk by my feet. I trail

back to bed, turn them in sheets.

 

 

First published in the OFI Press, Mexico, August 2013