At night I don’t dream.
I lie down in my bed and
close my eyes and
cover the lids with two coins. I pull up
the blanket over my head as
far as it will go.
And I wait for the adventure.
I fear I might lose my teeth
and become a porridge-eating mountain hag.
My grandmother lost hers and her mouth
was raw and empty and always redder than
I thought healthy. I brush my teeth every
morning and after every meal and before
I lie down in bed with my coins and shroud. In
between, I floss.
I have many pairs of shoes but
only ever one pair at a time
that really fits, that really walks
the long roads with me.
Whenever I replace that pair,
I have to learn anew how to tie
my laces, how to knock my heels together,
tap tap tap.
All my life
I would have loved to have a pet,
cat to my witch, hound to my fairy.
I never got one because
I did not want to turn
the back yard into a cemetery.
On my shopping list I write
I put the oatmeal in my shopping cart
and on my list, I cross out the word
with black ink, the magic of forgetting.
Immediately, I feel sorry.
Two pink lines mean yes
and one means no.
I do not know what I’d prefer
or what I should say
if someone asked me
a yes/no question. I wipe
my eyes with toilet paper.
I collect photos to collect
my life. They almost
show something meaningful,
are almost enough for a voodoo doll.
In my hands
the photos fall apart
like a make-up face