Song of the Siren

In the house are three effigies, carved out and
hollowed to leave room for the fire.
In the kitchen, fingers doused in olive oil dig
deep into recomposed meat; lips move to the
sound of Hallelujah.
Under the closed door slithers the spirit of
discord, or something like it; its stain crawls
across the flannel pants, licks the ribs, circles the
long fingers laced around a wine glass.
Three mouths, two plates, one failure: Welcome

The bedroom emits a scream which beckons like
the adhan calls the faithful. I want to see.
And I see: the bed is a coffin.
On it is my mother, or a sarcophagus, or a
On it is an open mouth, or a wound, or a tear.
Its sound is a tornado, a fountain springing
My father looks in silence, in reverence, at the
altar, an animal sighting in the wild.
There are many possible answers, but I won’t be
given one, and I don’t understand the question.

When my mother is gone, I sneak into her closet
and put on her black dress, patent heels, brown
And consider: how long the leg has become,
how thin the ankle below the trim.
Everything smells like her.
When my father is gone, I search for his gun. It
won’t be found, but I can hear it somewhere
inside the walls — a vibration, a song; low as a
whisper, but it wants me hard.