by Krista Halverson
At the door is an oven mitt attached to a Sister whose face is red in the steam of soup. Perfumes slosh in the bottles she dusts around. She's very good at cleaning me up and the traces of me. I would like to go out with a squirt on each wrist, my best clothes heavy and wet with scent. Until I can't smell anything but me. I should have a dozen more pictures of myself, in frames. There are babies floating on all the walls of this house. Here is what else I want, in writing, so you can't forget: my daughters to sit in piles of my clothes. My sons to stumble on my pearls, clicking on the bottom of the drawer. Someone who looks like me to bring the youngest home from school. And one more thing, I look like a witch, and someone ought to tell me.
