Her fingernails scuffled at the bedroom door. Pushed
paper scraps beneath the crack, scrawled
arrogations. Open the door boy
if you know how to love me! She’d strung yarn
with shells, yellow and pink, hung them
from the doorknob. On the bones
of her hard tongue, she felt their whorls, their gritty sutures.
Strange passions in her head, sky searching.
The bottle howled in real life same as in dreams.
Her son startled by slippers on the stairs.
Later, the t-shirt mucked with vomit, the head lolled,
unconscious against couch cushions.
Predictable, her bad weather.
Her son [he knew how to love her] descended the staircase.
He carried hand-towels, he carried bleach.