Pink Crystal

I didn't even know you lived next door
until the day I saw you moving out

The yellow sweatshirt
The white dog
The cold lemon sun
-all someone else's.
Gathering in the back of my throat,
a fistful of phlegm

A truck with ice cream cones 
painted on either side
wobbles down the narrow street,
engine chugging, brakes squealing,
tailpipe coughing out exhaust.

My needs  
("desires" sounds too elegant)
are torturous,
too big to fit inside me,
like fruit that splits its skin

Like frozen water that bursts the glass,
stealing its shape
before melting
very, very slowly


puddling on the floor
causing the paint to crack


and flake off
when the movers 
clomp down 
the porch 
steps


carrying boxes rattling with 
the intimacy of
inherited Depression glass,
stemware and tumblers 
that I'll never get the chance
to drink from