I wanted to tell God. The ceiling frozen into a flag

            the color of unarmed. Unarmed and ready to talk.

Sorry, I whispered into the flag. For the water pistols I filled

            with table vinegar, the soap lathered on the toothbrush.

 

Sorry for the mess. For the caterpillars I scratched off the cottonwoods

            and coffined in my mother's jewelry box. Each furred back

coiled in the cotton. Sorry for everything I made my stuffed animals do.

            Sorry, you weren't supposed to see that. Sorry,

 

I had pool water in my ears when you called. I couldn't hear you.

            Sorry for not listening the first time. About the bloodstains on

on my underwear. About my bra straps at Shabbat service and what

            the men might see and what the men might say to you later.

 

Sorry for that time I stayed out all night. For slipping the car out

            of the garage after you fell asleep. For wanting to lie on my back

for reasons other than prayer. Sorry, you didn't need to know that.

            Sorry I forgot what you told me. About boys

 

and what they do in tall grasses. It's been so long since

            we've had that talk. Sorry, I'm sure you were talking

through more conventional mouths: windowpane, satellite.

            Men with ties cut to match the carpet. Sorry,

 

when my father stood in our driveway and said

            People will think I don't have control of my family

I forgot that blessing is predicated on obedience. You know me.

            You know I was just looking for the word.