homecoming
BY MATTHEW GELLMAN
A brightness in the kitchen;
a willow holding sunset
in the hoop of its dress—
while my mother set the table,
I heard my father’s car
surrender in the driveway.
I wanted to shine. To make
my body burn. To unlock
every glass case where I used
to store all my silences
and watch them pirouette
on the cedar floor.
It took so long for me
to understand why
she turned away—
shame for having bought me
the gown, for wishing
I’d been a daughter.
I wore pink tulle. I wore
myself. I spun until
I could no longer see
my father, standing
in the doorway,
his head in his hands.
j
j
glass house
BY MATTHEW GELLMAN
Now, the shadow-selves
are razoring off
the heads of dandelions.
They know I have been hiding
behind red clovers
and a rusted door.
In vulpecular prairie wind,
I’ve been. The almost-boy
in the feral box.
The skin in the dress
and my rattling
kith of cornflowers
bruising the hardwood floor.
It is a crime
to be surrounded
only with yourself,
said Mother.
My hair always
refused to lie down
even as she combed it flat.
Soon, the bowl of me will empty.
Something winged
will stand at this door.
He’ll breathe in. He’ll use
every one of his teeth.
