I.
Overhearing an argument, something beneathmy cheeks like heat, like cowbells.I am at my most probable, most liquid,suddenly. I come when called.
II.
Over dinner, a man, melting, sells American pillowsthrough the television. The napkins are of a thick paper.The dishware, all rounded, the color of most bandages.I am impressed by my convincing father and loyal mother.Their face veins make clear they are not lying to themselves,not themselves. Faithfully, I am a large shardmade of their smaller shards. If you were toturn my ears inside out: hot skin, sleep, only trust your family.
III.
My father used to blow glass in California, sell plated jewelryfrom a dark grey suitcase, have regrets. My mother workedfor Eastern Air Lines and ate very little. Now, my mother livesalone and with my father in Miami. My father liveswith my…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2024