In the Small Hours.
The radiator coming on again. On a floating shelf above the
there's a picture of my brother, four cousins and myself,
three huddled on the floor, three squeezing shoulders on a sofa,
each staring across an inkblot twenty years away.
Discolored, scotch-taped at the edges, I can just make out
a left-eye squint, a hint of mauve in a scoop neck shirt,
a pair of barrettes clipped to a pair of plaits,
a snaggletooth grin gone off on its own anomalous search.
Clogged pipes block the rising steam. Walls clank,
vapor knocks against steel. In the small hours
the radiator rattles, labors hard for a minor heat.