ghosts of blue hands


pressed

onto fogged glass windows


bubble-gum smell

from the ventilator


caked into the carpet

sugar fibers beneath my toes


in the snow, a pigeon’s


egg, red spilled out

on the crystal white


stomach pains

snaked around my


abdomen—


it’s like Thanksgiving dinner


and the sweet potatoes are too much

I’ll smash the china plates


hoard the jagged shards

to build you a house


hidden beneath

my cherry wood table. I’ll burn


the turkey until it crisps


red, boil the gravy

in a silver pot


and spoon-feed

the meal to you


just the way you like

down in our pretty little house


wind blows the egg shell over


I bend purple knees

to reach for it with my hand


hold

the fiery life


that once lived inside

some cracked dream


footprints in the snow


I find wheezing

grass, tenderly packed soil


still burdened

by the wintry kiss


wet iris petals

soiled in dirt’s embrace