by Rosalie Hendon

My hands smell of yeast.
When I go to sleep I dream of bread,
wake up hungry.

I store baby clothes under my bed.
I have no children.

My roommate wants to plant a raspberry bush in our yard.
I don’t know how to tell her,
I already see our hands bloodied from the thorns.

I was born with all of my teeth.
Two rows, like a shark.

I ignored your call today.
I don’t have time to soothe you,
make your problems my own.

I can’t forget the words my brother said, years ago.
I think they left a scar.