The Undertaker’s Daughters

A mother must be witnessed stealing vanilla from
RiteMart, slipping the small bottle up her sleeve

Daughters, later, will dab this on wrists as perfume—
with the rinds of oranges, little flecks of white neck

There must be an image of a lighthouse in the older
daughter’s head, blinking Maine

Some things should not be touched. When this rule is
broken, the older daughter must wash her sister’s
hands in the river—must make a small hole to bury
the piece of bird

The older daughter will learn to hide things. She will
eat all the chocolates out of the advent calendar. No
one will talk about this shame

The older daughter will practice lashcurler. The
younger daughter, in the mirror behind her, will hold
her face to the sister. In the mirror are reflections of
sisters, reflections of sisters,

A piece of pig scull can pretend to be bone of fish

When the younger daughter’s heart is o open
wound—mouth like a quarry—she must be the
untouched thing

There must be fruit cans, emptied, turned into lanterns

Windows to hold old touch

When the older daughter is not met, as she thought
she’d be—under the bleacher’s that 9 p.m. in June—

She must wait there to be sure he is not coming

The younger daughter must work at the RiteMart,
unfold blue tarp to drape over bottles on Sundays—
there can be no mother to tell her be afraid

The older daughter must try to be a mother. She must
burn lamb, lay hot iron on carpet,

The younger daughter must stand in front of the
mirror for hours, see if her eye turns. Must kneel on
all fours with the door locked

Sisters play mothers, shoved down their pajama
shirts. Must practice make up, pressing body cotton
into their own mouths—a father will weep & weep at
this

A wound will weep, even afterdeath—bodies must be
sealed before embalming

4011 banana 4023 red grape

If plu numbers are not memorized, the younger
daughter will be pulled from behind a register, so the
manager can teach her

There must be counting change in a backroom. This
is not the sound of loneliness

A real lighthouse

A mother’s wigs on stands in a bedroom, the older
daughter to brush them

Where is the mother? Remember to miss her

There must be dares for kisses. One daughter kissed,

Names will be given new meaning in Sunday school.
Some girls won’t have two names

After, kids will throw rocks at the mortuary. Silly—
Pebbles can’t undo a grief

Just ask the younger daughter. Think of the boy she
loved, covered in blackflies

When painting the face of a body, an older daughter
will be proud. Condense to feeling other

—o—single pearl on the mother’s dresser—the older
daughter swallows

The younger daughter will spend time afraid of the
kiss of death. She practices on palms—calls a
neighbor’s cat to her lap in the garden—waits to try
it, tries it,

When the older daughter declares she loves smell of
basil, dried watercolor, the younger daughter must
say same! I love! hands filled with leaves & color

The older daughter, holding mouth glue, must move
closer to the sister

Must say I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sister’s face under
faucet water

Daughters will be given more names: Strabismus,
Amblyopia, Trichotillomania

The younger daughter will feel less like a younger
daughter—more finger sand raked—red eye of a
zebra—lovestain—come meet me at the trough—

The older daughter will try to practice feeling so it
doesn’t happen all at once

Under the bed, a red fireproof box

Girls will lay their stomachs on frontlawns, holding
magazines—flipping to a tanning timer. Red lollipop.
Heartshades. Daughters must be invited to do this

There must be an image of whitegrass. Flush. When
the river was beautiful

There must be a daughter inside of a mother. Twice.
& then there must be outside, outside,

The older daughter must think: I am no incendiary
when patches of her scalp bleed

Whole jar of maraschino cherries

A younger daughter on her knees is not red fireproof,
holding the box filled with her sister’s hair