blue girl

Say I'm muddy water.
A flood. Partly cloudy.
This body like a door
and all the girls sad girls,

a windfall, all waiting
for the mad scene.
Waiting for the Spanish
dancer that plays my mother

to let go the balloon hidden
beneath her skirt. Mostly,
I spin languorously, play
the spoons while the bones

are picked clean. There's a
rope in my throat in case of fire.
A martyr, a failing clock.
I've been hiding in the

cloak room for days
among the dark coats.
I've been placing a little dish
for water beneath the window.

A little brush near
the mirror for my hair.