locked out
I remember one summer
when the power went out.
my sister and I had been riding our bikes around town
and we got locked out of our house.
I threw her over my shoulders and
pushed her into a bathroom window,
where she climbed down the toilet tank
and ran to the door to let me in.
sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror.
I cannot see myself.
I peer through the blinds
into the windows of my eyes,
knocking on doors,
asking to be let in;
I hang spare key earrings
by my picket fence face
and tie doormat ribbons
into my braids;
I drape a dress over my wood-frame body
like a tablecloth over the dinner table,
as if my body is worth feasting over,
as if my spine is strong enough
to hold a family together.
I ring the doorbell
and wait in front of the mirror
hoping maybe I can feel welcomed in.
but it's summer right now,
my legs are covered,
and the power's out.