Pharmacy Bar

Sitting in front of the pharmacy bar, he leans

his weight on the red countertop, one arm slung

over the top of his thigh, the other bumps

the stamp machine that promises to ring; tokens

he’ll use to pay the paper angels singing carols

down at him. Below the florescent light cutting

the tiled floor, the boxes within boxes, the small

thing he feels when the cotton of his hat

sinks down on his ears. He looks to the right, wanting

to see his face in the display case, alongside

the tiny porcelain figurine of a dog –

to be that small, that contained.


Brother Door

There are no hands tallying on the clock;

no train of interlocking gears pushing forth

when your palm slams hard, thrusting splinters

beneath the door to your room.

I gather pieces of glass, of mirror, imagine

your feet, the tiny silver blades in your soles, then look

through the key hole of this door and another and another,

until I can see: the pink of your mouth,

two porcelain birds still on your tongue.

Remember, when we were little, and bathing

together traced mole constellations across our backs?

Tonight, I’ll sleep at your door, rest at you feet.

Island lizards clawing the chipped white walls.

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