When they say I am nothing like my family
everywhere I begin to see my son.
The days loll into clammy pages, stain
 
my hands indigo. This is what cleaning
affords me: a soup lid in a trash bag slices
my leg. Blood smears dirty plastic.
 
I smash the coffee pot on the counter.
If glass is bound to break, then why
am I surprised when shards glitter
 
with dust and prick my bare soles?
In the scorched bar yard a long-legged
rabbit darts between pizza crusts
 
and cigarette butts. The sky churns
pewter and olive, drips muddy into day-
drinks. Little bunny, this fairy tale
 
is an ugly one. It won’t wear bonnets,
won’t paint a nursery cream and blue.
Those that I have loved, they’ve made
 
themselves strangers to me now. My child,
wait for me in darkness. These godless
men are not worthy of your name.