thanksgiving
you’re acting horribly. we’re
waiting on a phone call,
we have this whole I hate you,
you hate my mother, everybody loves
the dog thing going on.
there’s a package at the door
and it’s got my medical supplies. you
unpack the box
and i sit under steam. shampoo automatic
like cold water in morning.
the body makes me nervous.
little arm,
careening from the top
of the shower curtain.
with every syringe you unpack
my body shivers with anticipatory illness.
three fingers on the back of my neck.
i sit on the sink and you
dry my legs. what is it about your hands,
the kind of gentleness that
settles as bruise.
outside, the wind moves through the pines
and the needles roll in waves.
bruises aren’t so bad. we
pile on top of each other in one
wet, drying heap. knuckles
suddenly white.
