Divorce

You discover a maritime compass in his drawer with the matches

worn smooth with the needle nodding north. The brass smell

reminds you of a story your father used to tell about the war,

young men adrift in boats too small to carry their cargo.

They had to decide who would steer and who would swim

to shore, Channel fog obscuring the only working compass.

It ended badly - it usually does.

You use it as a centerpiece in charcoal sketches, and later

to rescue a blackbird limping on Bowery, feeling the weight

in your pocket as you bandage its wing. Soon the compass

touches everything in your unlit apartment - the leaking loft

the burned lamb chop. Talisman on your ex-husband’s pillow

to ward off specters, navigate old arguments, the red arrow

pointing due south as you work on your anger, swinging

west when you finish the Codeine. You have no expectations

as you ascend into the embrace of a clean morning,

the steel dial exploding with tiny silver stars.

Like most things - it ceases to work after a while.

You melt it down for scrap, change the locks, fix

the roof yourself. No further need for direction.

Letters from Providence, RI, 1976

I.

Funny you should mention the flour. I swept it from the sidewalk

after the Pillsbury truck hit the hydrant on South Main, the block

dusted like a Bavarian village, Roberto shouting up from the bakery

put your damn shoes on & stop day-dreaming! He gave me a broom

& dregs of cold coffee. Later I run my finger through filthy flour

lick the tarmac, flecked with egg whites & milk. Imagine the cake

I’ll make if you write me back - vanilla buttercream, frosted golden

with strands of my hair. Yes, I am alive on this February morning

holding the big hands of the world. I’ll leave the window open

in case you write -

II.

Hands above the stove flame for warmth, I load sticky film

check the floor for knives. I think it’s Wednesday. My body

seethes inside the skirting board. I press glass against my thighs

brush cobwebs from my ribcage, arrange work boots, treads

smudge hungrily against my torso. Half-finished tuna sandwich

the air pale & thin. My camera captures a mousy girl, hair

disheveled & cruel, barely alive. I’m at my worst again.

Dad stares at my clavicle, squeezes limes in my soda, whispering

See how light works? Cannot keep his eyes from the frame

such a long exposure -

III.

In my dream your skin maps routes to the Moshassuck River

clotheslines cajole in an Easter breeze. I know you still love her.

Outrunning grief over the slope of Smith Hill, I lean toward

the camera while you hesitate, my red shirt unbuttoned. Grip

the tripod, you watch me bare teeth, my body bulletproof.

Before you left I reapplied lipstick, mauve fingers smearing

sky. Betrayal in your gait, my cleverness disappearing

at the summit with clouds that plunder then vanish -