Who will meet her?
sitting ahead of me,
her face a crushed girlskin,

The sisters are waiting
in the trophy room: Belinda
and Ducky, The morning

Sometimes I am so lonely the phone
will do.
Sometimes I am so lonely and you are not
dead, you

The underworld the bright brochures have shown
declines our courtesy. The rare albino fish
wait in the falls, and the blind salamanders,
ignoring camera flashes, sulk in cracks.

Spoiler alert: Jean Stafford, in her
all-but-out-of-print masterwork

It was not unlike a raccoon
when I found it by the highway.
Clearly it was special,

As if in answer to a primordial urge,
I longed for something
to which to

They called me to ask me if I know who you are.
But how can I? They have laid you
face downward against the coffin floor.

Taking myself in my teeth
I begin to rip away the bandage of my skin
unrolling it first from my arms

He wanted no money,
had nothing to sell,
didn’t boast or brag or bitch