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