mornings, the sadness rises in me
like an only sun. it's gray outside
my window, gray inside too. Iowa
is Auntie Em's funeral on a skit-skattered
grainy loop. i want to go home, home

home, i think. i close the curtains. i open
them again.  C Avenue is exactly the same as
it was the first time they opened-- clouds grayed
and faded in the wash, trees veiny
wrists twist-growing among
 a factory smell harder
than sidewalks.

dorothy understands me-- she clicked her heels
together like cymbals til she couldn't hear the
wound of her own want
anymore.