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(for Tennessee Williams,
after The Glass Menagerie)
The flicker of rain outside
is a torn film reel licking
the windowpane, hurling
grotesque images at the wall
opposite my torn stare: a bucket of tongues.
Paper ghosts murmur,
"Blow out your candles, Laura."
And blue. A wilted stench.
What is there to say?
We are Siamese cripples--
you, a limping princess hung from happenstance,
I, a lotus-eater, pockets full
of bent keys and stained glass--
praying that our biographies will be
stanzas of glitter
rather than encyclopedias of rust.
The music box across the alley
churned out paradisal serpents
while I danced for coins
in a red coat and fez.
Many were charmed, some seduced, but none fooled.
None but you, dear sister; you, I deceived.
The story isn't supposed to end
with Hansel fled and Gretel left
to face the blind Cerberus alone,
but I was afraid, sister--
the yawning belly of voracious flames
and seventeen gentleman callers
gone before us--so afraid.
If you get this, Laura, write to me.
I can no longer dream in color.
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