On the inky linoleum
you are a sprawl of legs,
two fists clamped
between grainy thighs, a face—
despite mascara and lip-gloss—
five years younger in fear
than the body I
guess at inside the baggy sweater.
You do not taste
the thin saliva behind your teeth.
You do not. You do not
understand the iconography
of the whites of your eyes.

Behind every gaping-door
lie mattresses and grayed sheets.
Behind the blotchy wallpaper
there are dozens of me
lighting yet another cigarette,
pants gummy with sperm.

Your parents—those citizens
of my generation—have shrunk
to a photograph.
Having neither ceiling nor floor,
their world is an interface
of orange and magenta.
Where they are, are the darker patches.
His is half a face, disturbed
behind half a pair of glasses;
hers is a grey-robed pose
from an Illustrated New Testament.
Your mother is smiling
at what her hands want to be doing
with each other. Behind
your father's half-head
are three other photographs:
a tottering foal, a canceled proof
of a child, and an old wind-fisted tree.

Like chairs that are never
seen to move, my gang of words
move in. Henut, sweet baby,
I have you cornered.