from archer avenue

swerve

I am bending toward the headlights
when the sound goes out. One minute
the wind in my throat, my hair,
and the next nothing. I had three sisters,
I tell you, and each of them a ballerina in a box.
A man, he took my sweater and gave me a drink.
Took my keys. Took my name down in a book
and offered to drive me home. I can’t stop
these headaches. The jagged glass beneath my
tongue. I wear my quiet like a charm bracelet
tinkling at my wrist. This body practically
a crime scene by now, all dusted and closed.
My sisters cry and make wreaths. You wouldn’t
believe how hot my hands are right now.
How tiny my fingers.