Marj Laydon

I

I was eight when our childhood home
burned to the ground; our family became a jaw
knowing only how to chew.

II

My only measure of time
was watching puberty darken
your summer hair.

III

It took ten years to explain your anger.
By then, I could explain the clinking
of paper bags on our father´s counter.

IV

Scooping slugs by the mushroom
sidewalk lights, we huddled like twins,
grinning thieves with nickel dreams

V

I remember our first hug on grandfather´s table
as he plied the splinter,
sticking like tree root from my foot.

VI

Blood didn´t matter.
You armed yourself against me:
the bitch and the baby.

VII

When I turned eighteen,
I found your rainbow rules
beside the woman in your bed.

VIII

I christened myself with a
black dress and gin;
atheist to your agnostic regime.

IX

Mom and you, me and me.
We both growled at our father´s shadow,
but only your soul was in it.

X

I see our father in you: the burn of whiskey
on breath, the cigarette-scented nails,
the pot smoke, and the perfect descending line of your toes.

XI

In my sleep, I steal your blue eyes,
the Irish cream of your skin, the jokes hugged
in your mouth — the beauty I cannot name.

XII

We spent years on trial; both guilty, both waiting
for the end. When we die, I hope it´s together,
in the arms of an urn.

XIII

Gently, like filling up a bath,
our silence ends despite the distance
of night, and it´s time enough.