In Inches

i.

I don’t actually know if her name is Wendy, as the sign suggests,

just that she ushers me in, squashes me into the leather-backed chair next in line

Come, come.

The floor is still an uneasy crime scene. What sins confessed here?

Committed?

ii.

My mother’s voice is glass and teeth.

Why do you have to do this

I lodge the rest of the sentence in my own throat.

She does not understand.

iii.

The razor reprehends skin, burns the question stinging— Announcing my ears working quickly, buzzing, asks me if I have always wanted this.

A spray bottle baptism.

Close your eyes.

iv.

I am five and peeling off the new skirt my mother bought me.

White, with sunflower print, a pretty thing.

I toss it over a lamp in the guest room and run out to play with the others.

v.

An inch is a unit of measure. Same as last time?

Yes.

With texture, please.

Faith is a funny thing.

vi.

Before she was my girlfriend, she pulled me to bed by the hair— our first time, held me to the ridge of her clavicle, fingers like tributaries over my fresh scalp. In the sweet and sticky summer night I could drink and drink and drink.

vii.

Wendy doesn’t ask too many questions. We have an understanding.

She weaves side to side, like a boxer,

exacting, a sculptor.

viii.

The lamp burnt a hole an inch wide through my sunflower skirt. An accident.

My mother is almost tearful when she finds it.

How ungrateful can you be?

Careless.

I turn shame in my stomach like a stone.

I am five, and know.

A pretty thing, ruined.

ix.

Wendy holds up the hand mirror so I can see. Reflection of reflection—infinity of could be clean cut and consequence.