or lamb with long neck

Trailer Park Dreams

Try painting the walls of a bathroom with no brush, only buckets of water and your two hands. Try finding home in broken street lamps, the necks long, silver, lopped like a lamb reaching for grain. Our arms the color of a peeled orange. Our wrists shaking not from the cold. Pulling take out menus and empty bottles from dumpsters, sitting at W14 waiting for a train we know won’t come. Once, my sister and I broke into a house just by walking in. We slept in the master bedroom, tried on the wife’s French bathrobes. Leanne drenched herself in perfume, and I sang to the mirrors, my voice a sparrow with tar slicking her wings. There, we peeled apples with butter knives, our mouths no longer open wounds.