Jane Wong

After breakfast, the fallen coats.
It wasn’t cold enough
for wool, but there it was
unraveling. I leaned against the coat rack,
tipped, with my hair
at the back of my knees.
After all, wasn’t this a waltz?
Underneath my feet, the rug curled, a wave
in the Atlantic. My brother going under
a wave with his little arms raised up
saying, halleluiah,
New Jersey! And, won’t you come home,
New Jersey?
I held the wool
close, I mothed
right through. A centipede swam out
from underneath the rug.
It moved east, all legs and nothing else.