Boxcutting

poor deflated boy, with hair like
a vampire bat–
all he craves –is a girl
with a perfectly square
bookshelf –who reads books
but
doesn’t have to talk about it–
poor boy, eyebrows soaked in
failure–
all he dreams of–
a girl–
who will take pictures of them
–together–
under the shaded long-grass, of his
grand-mother’s pear tree.

poor moon-kissed girl,
who’s mother said–
your arms were too fat,
and
your cheeks,
too un-delicate–
poor girl–
are those scars or dimples?
as a child–
hands smaller than apples–
how many tables did your face
run into?
how many lives — did they teach
you to live?
before he told you–
this is it –exactly– what I
wished for–

 

Jars 

In a hard, wet winter
under a rain-pelted roof
through wind-soured air,

Grammy packs her jars;
raspberries, peaches, sugar.
She stews cherry, pickles egg.

Freshly-broken bread rolls
dust our hands white with flour.
Brothers sleep on carpet.

Grammy tells me a story:
of sail-ships that carried wheat,
of candle light and salt-water.

Warriors and farmers with
the same last name as us,
bellies full of meat-pie.

She teaches me Gaelic:
“Teaghlaigh”

Grammy cleans our dishes,
saving potato-bits
she runs warm water,
humming something small.

My hands are in the sink.
Soaked in the brine of history,
it has pickled my fingertips.