On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
My grandmother sits in the rec room,
sewing me a slip. The venetian blinds permit a greenish light,
so it must be Montclair, New Jersey:
light as cool as her old Frigidaire.
I don’t like to mention that I never wear skirts.
Her knuckles are swollen with leftovers,
But she’s very good with the scissors. She snips coupons
for dead sisters, “ ’cause ya still gotta eat.”
She was always the lucky one.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
My sister pins a photo of our father to the inside of her slip.
It’s going to draw blood: blood the color of the roses in her hair.
I help her to walk down the aisle; every step is a calculated miss.
Soon, she’s going to shed her flesh and fly away.
It’s a girl thing. She can’t win, but if she did,
she’d have to be the lucky one.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
I treat all the sisters to manicures at the mall,
nails the color of gravestones. I could finally let my hair down,
but I cut it off. Everyone’s getting along; they’re so chatty;
The dead aunties laugh at my sister’s jokes, and
I have to tell them when it’s time to go, or we’ll all be stuck
at Paramus Park forever, that cauldron for cut-rate alchemies:
no finer place to transmutate the losses.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
my mother removes paintings from the wall of the hotel room in Paris.
Her slip is showing and the Eiffel Tower, tall and gray,
is standing at the window, singing a chanson with top hat and tails,
but she doesn’t notice. Some romance. She steps back to admire her work,
all the empty places. Her masterpiece.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
My sister and I fly to Rome. She’s not afraid to keep me company.
The traffic is streaming all around us; it’s time to visit the ruins.
We consult a map and look just like tourists. She checks first one way,
then the other. She takes my hand and pulls me in. Way to go, kiddo:
how to be the lucky one.
My grandmother sits in the rec room,
sewing me a slip. The venetian blinds permit a greenish light,
so it must be Montclair, New Jersey:
light as cool as her old Frigidaire.
I don’t like to mention that I never wear skirts.
Her knuckles are swollen with leftovers,
But she’s very good with the scissors. She snips coupons
for dead sisters, “ ’cause ya still gotta eat.”
She was always the lucky one.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
My sister pins a photo of our father to the inside of her slip.
It’s going to draw blood: blood the color of the roses in her hair.
I help her to walk down the aisle; every step is a calculated miss.
Soon, she’s going to shed her flesh and fly away.
It’s a girl thing. She can’t win, but if she did,
she’d have to be the lucky one.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
I treat all the sisters to manicures at the mall,
nails the color of gravestones. I could finally let my hair down,
but I cut it off. Everyone’s getting along; they’re so chatty;
The dead aunties laugh at my sister’s jokes, and
I have to tell them when it’s time to go, or we’ll all be stuck
at Paramus Park forever, that cauldron for cut-rate alchemies:
no finer place to transmutate the losses.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
my mother removes paintings from the wall of the hotel room in Paris.
Her slip is showing and the Eiffel Tower, tall and gray,
is standing at the window, singing a chanson with top hat and tails,
but she doesn’t notice. Some romance. She steps back to admire her work,
all the empty places. Her masterpiece.
On the lip of the bottomless abyss of disappointment,
My sister and I fly to Rome. She’s not afraid to keep me company.
The traffic is streaming all around us; it’s time to visit the ruins.
We consult a map and look just like tourists. She checks first one way,
then the other. She takes my hand and pulls me in. Way to go, kiddo:
how to be the lucky one.
