As a frittering girl
with big superficial eyes,
I hid under the bed
from my father
who was now
screwing a woman
of rock-hard silence.
I imagined making love
to Bob Dylan
but I couldn’t decide
whether we made a baby
under the bed
or on top of it.
Maybe we just made time.
When thirsty,
I will drink cool water
from a rusty spigot.
When I become longer
when the years stretch
and snap, I will teach
a parrot to sing a song
about a braised heart
misshapen as a cauliflower
never floating to the top
never completely cooked.
It won’t get me anywhere,
but it’s the only tune
I can carry