Flashback II

 

futon:

flat, lumpy mattress, pressed over metal bars,

  “you’ve never had a kind touch,” HE

tastes like blueberry Hooka              where is the smoke? why

can’t i breathe? my lungs  —i can’t

the TV’s on in our garage; the Donnie Darko rabbit

watches me, watches HIS pelvis beat on top of me

  close my eyes no-

body will notice the salt on my face, in my mouth,

my wet moans  —screams?  —cries over the surround

sound                  of a ringtone?   of my mom’s Baptist advice that pleads

   “all men are Vikings,” SHE

left seven voicemails begging me to go to church   first     —then re-

turn home where Jesus loves me? where

i’m welcome to my childhood bunk

bed:

firm, even mattress, raised high on screeching springs,

   “i never asked to be born,” i whisper              

into the pillows kissed      with blood-and-drool-and-shame-

            and-dandruff-and- 

 how many dead cells do we lie with?

 how

many   cells

                                                                                             do we lie

                                                                                                                     with

                                                                             dead                

—where am i? 

floor:

a hard, often dirty surface, no bias for carpet or wood or tile, and i wake up

   “are you okay?” THEY ask

 

Signed

Leona Wilde