On Instagram, a near-extinguished friend begs

for the wax-fattened grin of a camera. Ignores the aster bayoneted

through her hair. Stella, I say, girl of stars, look up. On the ceiling, Mother

has staged a crucifixion: I’m wavering like a small Jesus, pencil slotted

through this sunken ribcage. Letting rain slump as deadweight

on my mascara-cured shoulders. Uncanny, says Stella,

looking hard. Rifling. The apple-bright hallway shudders & rejects

our impressions of a New York girlhood. This time, I’m morphing into dirt,

holding Mother at gunpoint against heat-gutted sidewalks. Manhattan overflows with amber

-bellied men. In the womb of the Marriott Marquis, you drink

yourself split-lipped. Cut the puppet-strings on Stella,

quick. I’ll throw a bitter afterparty.