Closet Of Red
In place of no, my leaking mouth spills foxgloves. Trumpets of tongued blossoms litter the locked closet. Up to my ankles in petals, the hanged gowns close in, mother multiplied, more—there’re always more corseted ghosts, red-silk bodies crowd my mouth. I would say no, please; I would say sorry, Papa; I would never ask for mother again, but dresses dressed in dresses are dresses that own this garnet dark, this mouth. These hands can’t find the walls, only more mothers emptied out.