Under the tree in your backyard veiled women go to hide

from familiar streets, abandoned plates

piled high in sparkling kitchen sinks.

But I hide in your closet

smelling moth balls and your skin,

waiting in the dark

counting till ten.

Under the tree in your backyard veiled women go to hide

from pancakes on the burner

and the whiteness of walls.

Walking up your alleyway

down that familiar street

hand raised to knock,

the smell of mothballs and your skin

blows out with the curtains.

Standing at your front door

next to the tree in your backyard where veiled women go to hide,

maple syrup pours from the bark

and shattered plates litter your grass.

I kneel, pouring water down your back

unable to speak

from the smell of your skin.

Corinna Barsan