The Oleander

I lie in bed

and pray for this bruise to be lifted. My lashes,

papery thin and black, turn

a color.

I raise a hand to my cheek and clench a fist—

under my eyes what was blue

now, suddenly—

does not matter.

Or I pace the hall with a cigarette, an invisible slip

falling from the edge of my shoulders.

I imagine the frail blades of my back as wings.

They are too visible—

God, can you see?

My fingers press back, lightly to my skin—

two holes beside my lower spine. I tilt up

and picture myself a bird, preparing carefully for flight.

I try to lift myself from the tree branch blooming

White Oleanders. Wedged between two leaves,

the flower’s toxin bleeds down the edge of my feathers.

Caught, I try to fall—

let my wings go.

Back in the hall I settle at the windowsill,

a ceramic ashtray in hand. Gently I pull

back a curtain and peer out. Too often

I hear her calling my name

from across the street. ‘Come home,’ she whispers.

There is a drill, a jackhammer, and yet I can still

make out the shape of her voice.

She is wearing

a beige slip. It looks like mine.

                                                                            bio      printable