Ekphrasis, I Guess
after Ewan Hill
Turning like any good daughter I spit
on the wedding picture I took from her
closet so they both seem to bend. Time is
so time. Let’s say I put the sky to sleep
even if the stars are still in their sheds.
Okay. & someday, yeah. I do wanna
verb things like they looked good up there all
altar on their own, like I’ve swallowed too
many peach pits to not bolt any windows
this winter. Maybe I’m scared of heritage.
Or not. But I got these looks & locks
like I’m debutante. Where’s my dance.
My model & make. It’s true: I would make
a nightmare bridegroom. All disco lipgloss
& soft how I’m undoing. Call that our kind
of work. I got taught to tongue fruit
I found bleeding in the sheets. Like any good
headstone they bow so I’m catgut. They split
& I’m high-strung. They left, she’s right, Dad’s
half seconds from stitching me into his collar
so I bite down past the peach fuzz, leave a mess
behind my neckline, plunge my ring fingers
in the stove pot like bloodthinner. Mom won’t
say where she left what was left of her dress
so I put a third moon in the poem
to have enough dead light to dig by.