our house was never Pentecost bright,
but a more lukewarm, #23, whitewash.
vinyl siding outside, sensible,
inside: curtains, cushions neat and narrow.
my mother smoked, read romance, bored,
regularly vacuumed vagrant ash.
we ate from white plates, gray meat,
root vegetables and gravy.
the tv came on again at six pm,
having been turned off briefly at five.
the only talk of god was ... well, none,
but i prayed in private, read the bible
(where on earth did it come from?)
in my parent's alcove window,
12 years old, casting eyes upward.
a small prickly pear sustained itself
on a living room end table
in a terracotta pot,
i stole behind locked doors in socked feet
coaxing mosquitoes onto my body,
anxious for penetration.
Erin Wilson writes, takes photos, and runs in and around a small town in Ontario.