Pharmacy Bar
Sitting in front of the pharmacy bar, he leans
his weight on the red countertop, one arm slung
over the top of his thigh, the other bumps
the stamp machine that promises to ring; tokens
he’ll use to pay the paper angels singing carols
down at him. Below the florescent light cutting
the tiled floor, the boxes within boxes, the small
thing he feels when the cotton of his hat
sinks down on his ears. He looks to the right, wanting
to see his face in the display case, alongside
the tiny porcelain figurine of a dog –
to be that small, that contained.
Brother Door
There are no hands tallying on the clock;
no train of interlocking gears pushing forth
when your palm slams hard, thrusting splinters
beneath the door to your room.
I gather pieces of glass, of mirror, imagine
your feet, the tiny silver blades in your soles, then look
through the key hole of this door and another and another,
until I can see: the pink of your mouth,
two porcelain birds still on your tongue.
Remember, when we were little, and bathing
together traced mole constellations across our backs?
Tonight, I’ll sleep at your door, rest at you feet.
Island lizards clawing the chipped white walls.
