Hints from Heloise
-for Beth

When the glass of water drained your nightstand
in a surprised white o
you asked me. And I didn’t know
if it was toothpaste or peanut butter.
I knew one slipped stickiness from hair,
the cherry Jolly Rancher I wanted
to suck in my sleep. And the other
you could rub on a stain (or lack of stain, in this case)
willing back the warm wood.
I didn’t know, but pretended to,
smearing Peter Pan creamy,
which made sense because it was oily
and smooth, like what it wanted to heal.
But in the end it was toothpaste,
fresh chalky white that filled the spaces
where color left, that reunited veins
glowing in silky brown darkness,
good as yesterday.

I don’t remember what I was
doing when you asked me that,
or a more important set of questions.
I might have pushed you out
of my room. Or made you be
Laura Ingalls Wilder’s littlest sibling,
dying of tuberculosis in the back
of the black locked closet,
as I dressed in white eyelet nightgowns.
And later, in pink prom dresses
that you hid behind, me
beautiful as I cursed,
blamed you for lipstick smudges. My face as hot
as Rouge Nights, club soda dabbing,
your eyes quietly watching my image.

I forced your tongue
onto the frozen basketball pole,
knowing the danger as well
as the answer. I ran, warm water
in hand, back to a piece of it,
red bumps stuck like gum
to black metal, a trail of raw pits
in the snow, you spitting blood
at my arms that reached out, half trying
to hold you, half wanting to fix
the bright tip of pain, to clean
the spattered white, the mess
of mistakes and love.

But you never asked me
if I loved you, never doubted it
when I screamed at you dumbly
stumbling on my creations or the years
between us. Love,
something I couldn’t have
taught you, not with my streaks
of ugly, my tangled tempers, my scars
from tantrums that lasted forever.

Until you
gave me an answer
to imperfection, as small
as what soothed it. A wipe of cool
hands across my forehead, soft bright
eyes, a brush of lips on splotched skin
that made it new, refreshed,
forgiven.