I found a list of my infractions,
printed with force, as if
there had been a carbon sheet beneath:
lifting my skirt, making gestures,
carving skin from my feet.

There were my dreams, long rushes
rubber-banded in envelopes:
the windows of our house, rouged with fire,
and men pressing me to my bed, snuffing me;
my body, on a baking tray,
iced at the wrists, a soft rot
where lipstick went.

I would be sent for,
made to cue the evidence
against me, unable
to find a hatch to hide that girl
and warn her:
when a car pulls up,
do not get in without thinking;
pretend you aren’t at home,
or send someone in your place.
Climb platforms,
the stairs into hospitals
without turning to look,

and be attentive on trains.
Do not speak; keep the taste
of your sandwich
closed in your mouth, private,
and wait out the night,
lit in your window like a ticket vendor,
admitting.