Imperial Bedroom

On school nights,

my mother ran away

to a bar on

Chestnut Street

where she danced with

rich men in hopes they

might pay our rent.

My brother and I stayed

home with milk glass,

macramé owls and

steak knives hid

under the couch.

I paced dark halls,

padding into

mother’s room

where her smell

of Poison and patchouli

clung to my gown.

Her bed remained perfect,

all four corners tightly

tucked, each crease aligned.

Pillows stood erect,

every satin edge

seemed to shine.

Mornings before school,

my brother and I would

scald crickets jumping

in the bathtub, our limbs

cracking from the cold.

I realized, then,

that I could kill

this girl, afraid.

Replace her with

one smiling, hair

in braids,

clutching a crisp bouquet

of orchids, dahlia,

and iris, smoothing

the folds of her prom

dress.