my heart is a hole,
the picket fence torn
up and stabbed through,
the thief leaping
from the window, holding—
the I, the past,
my old myself. why
do normal words not fit
in my mouth, their edges
sharp and snapping—
the camera catching
the stripping, and I
the old, new girl
standing naked by the sill.
poem: phone call with my sister
the last pavilion 