family plot

my father says he’s sorry

carries a shovel

for a grave

he can’t help dig

we bury only women here

he points

counts bodies piling up

my father leaves me

leaves me

only hands—

gravel dry

callused heirlooms

two bruises that have begun

to take my mother up

She had no corners though the world was flat—

You don’t know what a suitcase is

until you understand your mother

115 pounds

hollowed out—so much room

to fold

your clothes

inside her

Who could survive

the tenderness

of a kitchen,

my sister

angry once

again

I’m still young enough to destroy

a marigold and be

forgiven, my father wakes

to take care

of me again

What would I do

to you

if my sister left,

took her son

and painted red

all over the garden