Hiding Places
The fingers of the fir tree
I named Thomas
out in the backyard.
A table in the corner
with a beer and an open tab
watching everyone watch
the people singing in the bright lights.
The closet in the laundry room
smelling my mother’s dresses
listening to footsteps thunder on
down the hallway.
A screen showing me
someone else’s story,
as if it will give me the roadmap to mine.
The image of myself
in the side mirror,
the Goo Goo Dolls in my headphones
casting a moody light over my face
gazing out the window
willing my family into nonexistence.
The muddy opaque paintbrush-water
between what is kind
and what is true
when you ask me if you hurt me.