Entropy

Things aren’t getting any easier

despite the ruts I’ve carved. Dishes    multiply like summer kittens

begging homes in my cabinets, laundry stacks 

to mountains I lap at, stubborn as sea. 

Things fall apart.

Charming rowhouses of baby teeth collapse

to a suburban sprawl of permanent incisors (no zoning laws)

and even my face 

trends toward complexity, 

color mottling, eyes 

sinking deeper into their tributaries.

My daughter swallows words.

Theytangleheavy in her throat Or is that me—my scratch of pen,

the dryer’s hum, soft-

close drawers, swallowed complaints.

She tells me to honk my horn.

Each of us wants the other 

to scream. The sky is falling,

but I can only see it in the shower,

and just like water, it slips

through my fingers, down my legs.

My mom looks at the blood

and shadows around us and sees 

the colors of a winter sunset.

Smooth-sided seeds wake up, erupt, 

confusion of fuchsia petals.

Words spill from my mouth

and I can’t shove them back inside.