Has too many stairs, We go up,
we go down. I lose
my place, sleep
in the blue and yellow bowl
on the kitchen table, tuck
a loaf of bread under my head
for a pillow at night.

They are shiny, gloss and grain,
and the grain goes all one way.
I put my foot on air, slip, trip.

The ocean wants to wear them down,
grind and scour them, salt and sand,
wipe their memory out. Wants them old
and wandering a nursing home.

They perch, no place to go but
down. If one leans,
the others will scream, make
an example of it, pray
over it, bring it back
into the fold. It won’t make that
mistake again, that energy spent.

They are slippery, taut as the skin
in a face lift. Like silicon breasts,
danger lurking in a perfect thing.
Too-white teeth, crowns: empty
cavities, places where the headache
begins.

Jackie Bartley

Jackie Bartley’s poems have appeared in a number of journals including Crab OrchardReview, Gulf Coast, and Image. Her most recent chapbook, Women Fresh from Water, was published by Finishing Line Press.