10.25.2006

Prayer

for Alice Wickes


Every morning, on the second floor of Somerset
I awoke to humming and the shuffling of feet
outside the door and knew she was there.
Often, by the time I rose
she had already mopped the bathroom floor,
made it brilliant in the morning sun and in dirty sandals
I walked across to get to the shower I liked.

One afternoon I entered through the main door to find
she was there, scrubbing the wall with a sponge,
unmaking the marks I had etched with my key as I passed.
She couldn't know I had made those marks -- still,
when she turned from them
hands dark and greasy with soap stain,
I saw in her gaze something like a judgment
and it followed me up the stairs to my room.

The morning after she died I awoke
to silence outside the door. Heavy with guilt,
I made my way into the bathroom.

The center stall had been taped off crudely,
and the whole place stank of shit and beer. The sun shone in,
illuminating the dirt that already had begun to settle
in the grout beneath my bare feet.
I stopped and fell to my knees, doing my best
to absorb the scum with my skin.

There I remain, afraid for myself,
and for the boys around me,
and for every boy I’ve ever known.