In the morning 

her mother will look in her room.

She will feel it somewhere;

it’s hard to explain.

Hard to light my cigarette.

Why is she sleeping so late, 

she will wonder

and as she puts her hand on the door,

she will feel it somewhere.

In her throat, in her chest.

The streets are wet.

It’s cold and the rain.

The streets are like doll’s eyes.

Shiny and dark.

Are you a model.

She stammered and blushed.

You look like a model.

She came with me easy.

I wish I could keep it.

It’s over so quickly.

Put it in one of those globes you shake,

with the snow.

It’s hard to explain the colors you see.

Muted tones.

Not like a rainbow.

I wish I could keep it 

locked in a box.

The kind that plays music.

Ballerina on top.

The cold and the rain.

She came with me easy.

The rain made it sparkle 

like black diamonds, crushed.

She called out to God.

God was not there.

This is the rest of your life, little mother.

You felt it somewhere 

at the end of your heart.

It’s hard to light my cigarette.

She broke like a wishbone.

It’s hard to explain.