More or Less

not enough information, you tell me

so suppose I tell you

the tortoise shell comb is

blue plastic purchased at the

Woolworth's on St. Charles Avenue

the unmade bed is a

single bed, with blue chenille bedspread

hiding pefectly tight hospital corners

the matchstick litters a

concrete porch where teenage girls

smoke methol cigarettes

the shaving brush is

my father's, stolen from

his toiletry set as a

reminder of home

there's a face in the closed window

it's a second story window, it is my face

and the face in the window stares at the

back of a girl on the sidewalk below and

that girl is me, also

the face in the window

whispers to the back of the girl on the sidewalk,

don't look back, don't ever look back

the armoire has another identity

a clothes closet filled with

peasant blouses, dresses with empire waists,

pants with elastic waistbands and

stretchy front panels, clothes discarded by

young woman for others who will come to

find bodies stretched beyond recognition

the girl on the sidewalk takes only

what she is wearing, what she wore

the glass chalice has no color

it is filled with

amniotic fluid and the

murky Mississippi

now, which is it?

loss

or

longing?

you tell me.