Mondays are for trying
on dotted nightgowns: no mother there
other than our mothers. Eight
ounces of orange juice, our necks in circles,
affirmations strung
onto a clothing line. It’s winter and I am
tired of silent letters and rubber
bedpans. Another
bout of bad weather. Another
half-cleaned tray nailed
onto the bulletin boards. Saltines
and minestrone sweat
into the tablecloth. Everything
is either boiled or steamed:
eggs, cauliflower, cod. Always
water rising in our bellies. The nurse
comes in one morning and says
This is no place to grieve, slaps
the laundry schedule on the walls.
Elton John is still standing
but only because he has to.
I find myself the king of the grit,
yellow bathrooms, girlhood
ticking between my thighs. I stop
calling. I do not understand
how to gut this phantom
hunger when wet socks flap like mouths.
In summer, this is all I’ve got: The lilies
perched in the crossing, migrating.