In Our Annual Report, My Sisters and I Refuse to Apologize
In the fall, we discovered ribcages
in our apples. We ate an entire street
and it was also the world.
I found the Virgin Mary
in a walnut.
In the winter we rescued a dog
made of paper, grew an avocado tree
in a shot glass, listened
to the invisible radio,
and named all the roaches in our kitchen Pablo.
We made our apartment of hair
scrounged from shower drains,
perfect, lacy circles for windows, lifted
from brushes and boiled
in a big pot to make felt
for the walls, pulled from our heads
to stitch everything together.
We balanced our home on the fire
escape of a burned-out steel mill.
Everything was perfect
until spring, when a flock of sparrows
carried it away.
One summer night our hearts
turned into deer. They are the university
flowers, left hoof print on the soccer field,
and shit all over the library.
We set fire to an apple tree
and wished we hadn't.
We blamed the wrong people; we stayed too long.
We made a list of goals and sank it
in the Monongahela.
We wore each other's dresses.