the boarder

you can't make these things up,
no one would believe you, if they
weren't true. if you didn't swear to
them. they wouldn't believe the woman
you talk about. how round shouldered
and large she was. the size of a man.
a steel worker, or longshoreman.
the blue smoke
of her cigarette, her bad teeth
and cursing. how she came to live
in your house, handing your mother
forty dollars at the end of
the month for rent. finding her
asleep on the couch. the blue
couch where no one could sit
anymore and watch television.
no one would believe you,
how she belittled your brothers
and sisters, how small she made
small children feel. how she
demanded pancakes out of you
in the kitchen. round, not
like you were making them, standing
on a stool to see the pan
as you poured the yellow
batter into the black face
of heat. no one could imagine
a life like that. where were your
parents, what street were they on,
what city had they left to, escaped
to, separately and alone, leaving
you with this woman. this strange
rust haired woman with a thick
smear of pond's cream
on her moon face, as if anything
could help.