I’m sick with the wilderness
of coffee tables:
glass tops, wide
wooden legs,
white screws glaring back
in cobbler lips.
Upstairs your voice—
steep pull
of the taiga—
brings with it
what I’ve done:
washed my palms
in your mother’s sink,
clippered through
my mouth
with her toothpaste,
her water, spent my nails
on the piney barge
of body soap.
