My mother drove us to your office in agony, me against
the window glass in blue, Dunkin Donuts drive-thrus,
armies of pine trees. You invited me
to the couch. 10 Advil PMs later, I fell
into the kitchen as my mother
hung up the landline and told me
it’s serious. I was dangerous, sitting
in the front seat as a solemn
friend’s mother said she coveted
my young virginity. Dangerous, undressing.
A danger to myself, curled under
the refrigerator, shrinking in my sleeves.
Dangerous enough to lie in my diary, leaving
a trail of vodka I didn’t drink. Dangerous. I killed
a slug with an atlas as it crept towards my feet.
Even on the toilet, I held myself, Jillian.
I screamed into the hole in the porcelain, drowned
my voice discreetly in its valves.
After I swallowed what you meant
by serious, my portrait on the wall
in the bathroom looked back
at me — the one from 2nd grade,
colored pencil, at Disney. The girl
was bloodstained, squirming. I woke up
drenched, the room rolled into
a rug, vacuum to my name. I shaved
my pussy, did the math homework. Yes,
I’m still afraid of the lamp that seduced
me at night, the way I stared into its bulb
after it burned through the shade.
I co-exist with stupid relics —
Chanel cologne going stale
on a stolen funeral tissue,
smudged photo booth strip
with the glass pipe panel
cut out, your old band sticker
losing its adhesive. Nothing
fixed on my end but the motion
detector — not teeth or nail
or fragments of bones, not
a gold chain necklace, a stray
black strand on a leather jacket.
A relic is something I should
understand — an elevated
memento, life adjacent, fragile call
from the wildness next door, extra
marrow carved out of a ribcage
so rich I could drink myself placid.
What keeps me from the plunge
below? A certain mad amber
light from the buttons, the urge
Thick in heat’s summer swill, past noon, we stop arguing about
synchronizing the morning, leftover $12 breakfast sandwiches
greasing against our legs, paper sweltering, to discover the man
holding concealed animal ashes. His veterinary bag is plastic, not
even velvet or cloth. The man wears a cap, his quiet filling the box.
That was the saddest bag I’ve ever seen, you say when he gets off,
lava bobs in your throat at the thought of putting down a pet alone.
Will you know what to do when it’s dog’s time? You ask about our
imaginary rescue and I say I think I will. In this version of my grief,
I am calm, large — quick to forgive, pry open the doors. I fall in love,
impervious to the hungrier plots of death stalking into place once we
leave the tiny shaft, enter the hall. In this version of the bag, I take
it from your hand, cradle our bread, protect our cold eggs. In this
version, I open the box. In this version, I know what’s inside.