Michelle Whalen
Feral is a cat without a home.
Feral is a girl left all alone.
Latchkey,
Atari, the little
boy ghost.
My brother,
the freezer, tongue
frosted the most.
Sacred was a girl all dressed in white.
Sacred was the chicken pox for that child bride.
Guilt
absolved, pass
the plate high.
Sins,
confessions,
ice cream cone Christ.
Feral is a girl watching pornos at night,
Sacred are the sitters in her early life.
Wind
through the sills,
whistling rattles.
Playgirl,
Tom Selleck,
Cinemax scrambles.
Satin sheets,
Pink rollers.
Make-up is Annie’s.
Turnpike
noise lulls,
grinding teeth, flannel jammies.
All-skate
at Wal-Lex,
Friday night meet.
Handlebar
ride home,
streetlights to beat.
Sacred is Sunday dinner that’s eaten at two.
A feral fight for charred ends, and a glass of blood, au jus.
Packing, goodbye,
triple-decker sold.
I took a slice of a tree with a decoupaged Pope.
Last hope.
Lost cottage, home at the Weirs.
Family legacy thrown away through projectile tears.
Sacred memories of childhood homes.
Feral is the girl who took a lifetime to roam.
Sacrilege is a return to unwelcome tones.
Feral is righteous,
I will
not atone.
A girl is home now and
not alone.