Wax Lips

Not the Live Oak, or stump of it.Not the old Chevy in the back lot—       chassis thrumming with yellow jackets.Not the grand façade's slice-of-cake smile,    rugs rolled up & propped.Not the criminal fireplace, black-jawed,    singe feathering the flocked wallpaper.Not the labial pink davenport unsprung—       your hand deep in its ticking:Nothing doing. Nothing plump.

Not the stair landing where your head    stuck between ballusterswhere you kneeled for—was it years?—       on the cocoa carpetas Maw-maw buttered your neck, your ears.

Not where your aunt saw a ghost—the shade of Prim Lady rocking       in her chair, but Up There:the final flight of stairs, where       your uncle lived & failed to live.The steep flight, no light, the pitched       ceiling, the single bed stillbornon its iron frame—its mattress       stripped & striped like nightshirts.

No, you must move this aside       & grow low & pry the plywoodout like a rotted tooth. You must       put your hand where you can't:down the maw of the doll-sized       crawl space. You must siltyour hand & feel for the shine:fleck your hand in the pink    fiberglass field to know the plump thing, the plaything—       & fetch it out.

You must put the piece in your mouth—       the soft cherry chew, the cartoonyou—you must find a mirror, undrape it,       make the drop cloth plume, makethe mum pout speak: Come hither, you.       Grotesque You. EventuallyYou—You must chew on it.