We’re bs-ing the rules
of playing house and yet
I love her,
even when I curse
fucking christ
and she says not to say
His name in vain.
She keeps my father
in stationery boxes.
I never knew
he was young.
I’ve seen him
in the hallways.
She bought
new chairs for the living
room, but our home
is like the peace
lily wilting under
my touch.
I’m about as handsome
as my done father.
I heard he found
a second woman
in a silver cabinet—
the elbowed ointments,
Excedrin, all
the codeine syrup
I’ve ever had inside me.
Don’t tell me.
Here we do not believe
in the dead.
Or him.