Oh, the stress
of being on display,
of going

to the mall
and having to stay
there. Where? Of

America. Oh,
the survival stories
to tell. If

we do that sort
of thing. Tanked. Touch

me. I’m not ready
to be touched.

He hides his words
inside a Mason jar. Thinks

no one will see him
peel them off
his tongue with sugar-tongs,
slip them in, screw it

shut. Nothing to do
with lisps, though he had one.

Outgrew it the way
he outgrows you
and your sea glass
smooth voice. No air

in or out. His own breathing
drained of sound

the way an alarm
clock inside
a sealed bell jar
won’t wake you up.

Sitting in a roadside cafe waiting
for the other

shoe to drop. My older sisters
tossed their sneakers

(probably red)
out the station wagon window.

Rumor was they blamed me
when our mother found out.

I was under one. Both my sisters
are older. I don’t always achieve

economy
of words.

Usually know where
the action lies. Avoid

the passive
voice. Most of the time.

It can be heard
from the other side

of the highway. A distant sound
to be avoided

by truckers and young women
on the loose. Facts lie more often

in spring. Be careful. The other

shoe might become
a lady’s slipper.

Frozen shut for months,
a gate begins to swing. She swallows,
breathes in warming air. Time
to speak up again. Letters taste as foreign

as rusted hinges
and shallow pools
of sweet brine. So many alphabet
flavors to acquire.