and crossbones on the label,and the wide morgue of the medicine
cabinet open. The order of gauze,
tape and cotton on the glass shelves.
The flesh-colored bandage held
in a tight roll by its butterfly clasp.
Dusting of talc. Flocking of toothpaste.
The white soft ridges of soap in the empty
dish. And his other hand under the rush of cold
water. The sink filling with rosy, thinned
blood. The blue razor blade he was trying
to fit into the cabinet’s disposal slot
lies like a fish fin on the pink ceramic counter.
Then resting the cut hand on the rim of the sink,
fingers held up to slow the flow of blood,
my uncle fits the bottle in his mouth.
The exaggerated squint of one eye
as his teeth tighten on the plastic cap
and his good hand strains, like a wrench,
until the seal on the vial breaks. Then his tongue,
ferrous with the leakage, sputters and spits,
his lips wiping the bitterness on his shoulder,
the back of his wrist. His head crazy
with the mistake. And the water he cups
in his hands, brackish with blood and iodine,
is the color of the veil that shrouds
his life and its absurd diminishment
there in the bathroom of his sister’s house.
The Pageant
When Brian McCarthy, the male lead
in our third-grade, Spanish-class
production of Alice in Wonderland,
didn’t show, Mrs. Carrera’s husband,
Tito, had to read lines from the wings,
where he also managed the plywood
and canvas scenery. Paunchy in a white
T-shirt, sleeves covering tattooed anchors,
he lost whole sentences in drapery
and screens, which made Alice, the precocious
Diane Grasso, bossier than ever, more confident,
so that she served up tildes and rolled
r’s like virtuoso yo-yo tricks.
The pageant made city news in the morning paper:
a photograph framed by the ratty proscenium
of the social hall, in which Mrs. Carrera
occupies the foreground, holding
her blue-and-red velveteen
needlepoint portrait of Kennedy
(her scapular of gratitude for America)
while the cast stands by height
in tiers behind her, and Tito out of sight
in the wings smokes in his folding chair,
a hand on the drapery cords, his feet
propped on the tiny canvas door he made for Alice.
A Private Place
I kept you buried in a shallow alley grave,
a hollowed dirt canoe, in which after having touched
your legs and breasts and shoulders,
I rolled you up like a sporting program—
a telescope or megaphone—through which I could
see or speak to you when you were gone.
I dug you up as often as I thought of you,
though sometimes I’d resist and so my giving in
was sweeter. And even now I remember
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