You are the crack
of book spines, smack of
morning flapjacks slapping cast
iron, the last cladder
of stilettos at three AM and a family reunion’s subject matter.
I am the family secret
drunk Aunt Scarlet slurs
through cigarettes. I’m overdue
library books, and residue scraps
from the pancakes your three AM girl left after twelve shots of peach Schnapps.