Winter rustles a windchime and I once again see
in front of me the hill I will take.
Today I washed my hands, and
remembered the scratch of the earthy
paper towel pressed against my face in
Relief. It tasted salty because I asked it to be so.
I remember steeling myself
to reach out and grab the cold metal hand,
to walk away knowing I could not walk away
again. I dried my hands. I remember lying to
his face: “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.” He hated
liars, I remember that, too.
By December, they sold everything.
The house, the car, the chess set from London,
His cashmere, his cane, his tube of toothpaste,
patiently half e m p t y
on the counter.
Love is soft, warm,
the moss on
the roof of the dollhouse
my grandmother built me
when I was three.
If I could, I’d
shrink
down
once more and sit on the bench
She placed just outside
my three story home,
admiring my minor life.
In my house,
we drink Shirley Temples with every meal
and I laugh so hard that
cherry juice comes out of my nose.
I have pink walls and thirteen dogs
and they wear pink ribbon around their necks
and drink Shirley Temples with me.
Their noses are soft, warm,
sniffing under the door jamb,
curious about dinner.
Max asks when the bell will ring,
I beg for it to toll.
We are all happy.
I didn’t notice I was small then,
because my gods would sit
in tiaras and feather boas
at my two inch kitchen table,
pinkies raised, sipping tea, asking
me about the new doll my parents brought
home from Saint Agnes.
Today, my grandfather’s dog tags hang next to
my old terrier’s collar
above the mantle.
They hug on breezy days when my mom leaves
the back door open.
They sound like teacups clinking.
They sound like a girl laughing.
They remind me I am small,
and all my gods are in the ground.
Beneath my feet,
the grass is soft on the hill,
the top of which I cannot see,
always half
way
up,
always half
way
e m p t y.
A tube of toothpaste on a bathroom sink.