you caught me in our closet
again, plucking strands of hair
in the almost dark.
I said I was weaving curtains
to keep your mother out,
so you turned on the overhead
bulb and went back to bed.
at breakfast you said weren’t hungry
while I hovered around your knees,
sopping up the milk that bled like
canvas paint through the bowl I’d
made from the bits of me I’d been saving.
I baptized your spoon and examined
what I’d been leaving behind; five
of my molars formed the handle.
I tossed it in with the other cutlery
and when you left for work you kissed
me goodbye and my jaw fell off.
I think you were absentminded when
you put it in your briefcase with your
ballpoint pens and paperwork, and I
was left at home to cover all the mirrors.
I think I hid beneath the bed until
I heard our screen door open and slap shut.
when I emerged all limbs you’d popped
open your case on our bedroom floor,
making a museum of me.
and while I reached for every piece
with newspaper hands you sunk
into a nearby chair, clicked on the
lamp and read me every hidden archive.
** I would like to thank WordPress for choosing my poem, a poet to her son, to be Freshly Pressed last week, and to all those who liked, commented, or chose to follow my blog based on that piece: your feedback has been overwhelming. Thank you so, so much. I look forward to making even more writing connections!