Outdoor Bleach

First I noticed how it feels

like I've been hit by a truck

I wonder if my mother cleaned so deeply

because it made her whole body ache

and maybe that made her feel

like she'd earned the pills she'd take

meanwhile I hesitate to take an Advil

after I've peeled myself 

from the comfort of a Sunday bed

in a house I hesitate to decorate

In a single weekend

I have given myself her hands

the piano fingers she passed down

now have the kind of cracks

you get in your knuckles

if you scrub something barehanded

when you should have been wearing gloves

My skin still smells like outdoor bleach

which might not be any different

from indoor bleach, I'm not sure

but no matter, it all smells the same

like the afternoon open swim

at the Tualatin Hills Aquatic Center

I bury my hands in my palms

and take a deep breath in

I am riding my bike with the boys

losing my baby teeth in chewy candy

in the hour between two open swims

I am standing with my toes curled 

at the edge of the diving platform

considering jumping in, afraid of being pushed

you're out in the cold waiting in line
in my old green jacket 

from my sister's old roommate

it's moved through the lifetimes

I first wore it in the hudson valley mall 

in the summertime to stay warm in the 

freezing air conditioned theater

underneath wearing a bathing suit and cut offs

feeling that my shimmering youth-beauty was all the more bright

from the swagger of wearing something truly unattractive

then years later i'd shed the coat instantly 

even dropping it on the floor

after getting on the 6 train

when we'd ride up to the bronx together

the first mother winter

i'd wear over the carrier

huge and lumpy

this tired year you're wearing it

on walks with your mom

now not needing to be held up so much

in the line to the bakery

the pockets of crumbs we've collected 

all these years

could fill a bread box

January twelfth belated

this my poem from yesterday, this

my creaky fingers, this

refrigerator in the other room

is speaking to itself

 

this the unruffled papers clutching

music notation in their teeth

like a wild cat gnarling a bird

 

if you can’t fly (because you’re dead)

let me know I’ll sing a song

 

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