Terms and Conditions
You call me ho; it’s short for home.
A cockroach falls from a chandelier
and my bodega loyalty fluctuates in
pace with the funeral’s bloody nose.
I’ve been eating trees my whole life,
which usually made me more patient
but more cruel; recently I stood on
a porch that wraps around that nest,
the house that used me. Any noise
can be a curse to a child of chaos,
silent hallways from Gothic novels
to twilight wind in fire songs. This
unlucky, to not even be an architect
and to be inundated with the prose
of it all—were we, daughters, spent,
when all hoped for sums? You call
out ha; it’s short for harvest. To be
a child is to gather secrets, an elder
to risk in transit. Once when I was
recovering, covering again myself,
I confused sharing for stealing, read
murder into shadows until laughter
came from silhouettes. We’ve since
phased, piano bleaching the scene,
becoming the fog and the pulp. You
name me ma; I know it means mine.
