Terms and Conditions

You call me ho; it’s short for home.

A cockroach falls from a chandelier

and my bodega loyalty fluctuates in

pace with the funeral’s bloody nose.

I’ve been eating trees my whole life,

which usually made me more patient

but more cruel; recently I stood on

a porch that wraps around that nest,

the house that used me. Any noise

can be a curse to a child of chaos,

silent hallways from Gothic novels

to twilight wind in fire songs. This

unlucky, to not even be an architect

and to be inundated with the prose

of it all—were we, daughters, spent,

when all hoped for sums? You call

out ha; it’s short for harvest. To be

a child is to gather secrets, an elder

to risk in transit. Once when I was

recovering, covering again myself,

I confused sharing for stealing, read

murder into shadows until laughter

came from silhouettes. We’ve since

phased, piano bleaching the scene,

becoming the fog and the pulp. You

name me ma; I know it means mine.