The opening in the ceiling
looks like a cunt, like a sliced
mouth that bleeds pipe water
in the shower. This leak turns
my skin green, it falls off like paint
from wet plaster. The handyman never calls.
The ceiling has separated from the wall
and the paint peels and drips.
I fill a vial with the dirty water
drink it to remember the forest.
When the witch appears to fix
the bubbled sheetrock
her spell stops the leak but not
before the hole opens and melts
her hands into green stumps;
it’s more like war than a movie.
I cover the damage with primer
a fresh coat of eggshell
but later, much later, it will stain
yellow and crack again.
Bernadette McComish earned an MFA from Sarah Lawrence, and an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language from Hunter. Her poems have appeared in The Cortland Review
, Sunday Salon
, Hospital Drive
, Rag Queen Periodical
, Poetry Leaves
, and she was a finalist for the New Millennium Writers 41st poetry prize. She teaches high school in Los Angeles, and performs with the Poetry Brothel, healing one John at a time with words and glitter.
more by Bernadette McComish:
An Old Story