SIR

Kate Dougherty

Join Our Party, Leave Your Comb

They dress according to what comes next
and what will help. Snip the curls.
Drop them in the sink or toilet.

Evening ritual of removal,
strip, peel, rub, scour before.
A snap of sleep.

I forget what day it is
and how to sew a button.
I chop wood and sing warblings
to glycerin and bathwater.

They remove the glass
and launder the sheets.
They mend the valleys
and sweep the road of gravel
a shard and its bloodscape.

Every Hour I Whittle Another Ventricle

Soak them in Kool-Aid. Rub with salt
and oil.

I wear a yellow headdress
to invoke sinuses and gut.

I prop the patterned headrest
on the bed, stacked on folded blankets.

This isn’t a grease trap, it’s my heart.

Your knuckles glisten. Water them
and rinse away white grit.

Tow me along by hand, variant. Help me
leave better. I want to climb in. Roost
in your neck. Pap & listen.

I want to soften
your knuckles in oil

gloss your eyebrows clean

polish your slick
this all over my whittled compulsion.