Sink

suppose you’re eight

a crow drowns in the dishwater

black plum

-age all over the place.

your mother’s kitchen will never be clean enough

to please God. she wakes

you from your sleep in the night

to wash the spoons.

you don’t talk back but gag

at the thought of it, old food

floating in the cold

swampy sink. in your mouth

you throw up a yellow

narcissus pretty as forgiveness

should be and swallow it. your mother

raises you like a welt—palpable earth

-worm under the skin.

suppose the crow was preying

over you, your hungry angel. for punishment

your mother had a hundred belts

but you forced yourself not to cry

when she hit you because it felt

better than rolling a bawl

into an abyss.

suppose the crow cried

out in your voice: I’m sorry

and only God knew at the time

that those were the wrong words.