Row 13C. A woman asks to switch,

aisle-aisle, to sit with her son. I listen

for the sound of angels. The man beside

me presses his warm thigh to mine

& doesn’t smile. My mother calls me

dirty. My sister is alive, willing, infinitely

kind. I am no one’s daughter, briefly,

in the pink of my mouth, lined thread pulled

into the shadow of a body. In another

recycled hour, I learn about hate.

Everyone I know & everyone I don’t is dreaming

wild 20th-century dreams, elbows snapped

& pinned to Newark’s silver oak. Yes, bring back

the guillotine, that uproarious thing.

There are some stories that compare women’s

bodies to flowers—what it must be like to unfold

in men’s open garden fingers. Lazarus without

God, Lazarus without Mary, Lazarus

without. In the waking yolk-day I am reaching

out my hand like they do in the movies, wondering

what these protagonists are doing with

empty air. Between pointer & thumb is the

boiler’s sharp hissing, the roar of dandelions.

Briefly I wonder what it means to be filthy

& alive. If this is all it is. Earthworm, molerat,

loose weed. The seatbelt light flickers. Lazarus,

half-dead morning Lazarus, outside

the lavatory door, impatient & knocking upRow 13C. A woman asks to switch,

aisle-aisle, to sit with her son. I listen

for the sound of angels. The man beside

me presses his warm thigh to mine

& doesn’t smile. My mother calls me

dirty. My sister is alive, willing, infinitely

kind. I am no one’s daughter, briefly,

in the pink of my mouth, lined thread pulled

into the shadow of a body. In another

recycled hour, I learn about hate.

Everyone I know & everyone I don’t is dreaming

wild 20th-century dreams, elbows snapped

& pinned to Newark’s silver oak. Yes, bring back

the guillotine, that uproarious thing.

There are some stories that compare women’s

bodies to flowers—what it must be like to unfold

in men’s open garden fingers. Lazarus without

God, Lazarus without Mary, Lazarus

without. In the waking yolk-day I am reaching

out my hand like they do in the movies, wondering

what these protagonists are doing with

empty air. Between pointer & thumb is the

boiler’s sharp hissing, the roar of dandelions.

Briefly I wonder what it means to be filthy

& alive. If this is all it is. Earthworm, molerat,

loose weed. The seatbelt light flickers. Lazarus,

half-dead morning Lazarus, outside

the lavatory door, impatient & knocking up

a murder. The Mother overlaps with mine

with Mine’s, listening to Jay Chou blearily. Behind her

she is told to quiet. Midnight vapor forms

the secondhand face of my sister. Once,

unbidden: I need her to be more

than this. My sister, haloed in a dream, hanging

a star from the great eggshell sky, praying

& asking don’t you want to be in love, love, love—