SELF-PORTRAIT AFTER THE FALL
I pulled at that knee scab little by little,
like a burnt pancake stuck to the pan.
A week later, when I could finally raise it,
I looked at the underside of my arm,
and there was my mother’s upper arm,
an ugly purple and black tie-dye
on my skin. I washed myself in the shower
as I remembered washing my mother
in the shower, bruises spotting her
as though she was a Dalmatian
or Holstien. I’d looked at her with love
but I hated myself for my misstep.
My fingers were gray sausages,
puffy, unbendable. I washed my hair
with my one good hand, my other
in a plastic bag. My scalp was itchy
with shampoo residue I couldn’t
squeeze out. I kneaded the toothpaste
from the tube after I lay down
my brush. Then up and down and spit
in the sink. Underneath that knee scab—
a pink so vulnerable, so feminine
and shiny. I wanted to cover it up,
but the doctor insisted it needed air.
COSPLAY
My college boyfriend wore a shirt from Citco with an iron patch that read Bubba on one sleeve. And I had a bowling shirt with Lulu embroidered in cursive over the pocket. We were trendy, buying our clothes at Salvation Army and Goodwill. It was fun pretending to be someone else—digging into our working class roots as we tried to escape them. Now with a click you can buy an ICE jacket or ICE cap on Amazon. And convincing Halloween police uniforms. Now people disappear. A man posing as a cop shoots Minnesota politicians and their spouses. My boyfriend Bubba never tried to pump gas for a stranger. Come to think of it, we never went bowling those years or rented any Brunswick shoes.