because my dream of the shower house
don’t ask me
their hands are too small
their eyes will not open they are
sealed-up shut a purring sound
is furring up the edges of the photograph
where fifteen pairs of shoes are toed-to-the-line
Margaret and Mary Ann whistling just like the boys
oh! how starched our undercarriages,
how immovable our curls,
oh! our bastillion brassieres.
someone hurls a pair of batons going brilliant going
bang
blistering the night air
those of us who sneaked were
always sneaking
sneaking
sneaking
behind the gym,
behind the churches,
behind the front seat and into the open
black waters of the backseat where the boys slip
guppies inside us,
tiny love notes fish-mouthed and carved from red
be mine, be mine, be mine
when they swim out we will leave them in the
shower room under a bucket of socks,
under the pink drip of the soap,
under the drain that never does its job
properly but will do well enough now
to waterlog them silent and still.
