When your father's upstairs But no one's at home You will try to recall pleasant memories And fail. They are too distant. Blotted out by the shadow Of a wine glass; Of an empty vodka bottle And a carton of orange juice. "When a father drinks everyone drowns" They once said to me. "And the carousel goes round and round" They added. But even those voices are distant; In vain I wrap them around my body And draw myself inward. (Like a cocoon, Like a blanket fort.) But they're too thin to bring warmth. So once again I am desert ground, Cracked lips. A skeleton Without enough skin.

My mind was a wasteland, Ribs showing, Rattling defiantly like Bamboo windchimes; The peaceful sound of hollow places Rippling out, Vibrating. 'Where is my mind?' They asked in turn, Nudging each other encouragingly. My eyes were watery and unblinking; They were as fingers wrapped around a trunk of lead, Carving out their conjurings, The weight of their intent answering, Ringing, As they drew a rabbit hole, Crisp and clean, Like a shiny apple I'd never eat.