I remember clowns, with distaste,
printed in bright primary colors
on linen sheets that chaffed
my skin and threw off static
lighting bolts when I twisted
in my dreams: the cotton taste
lingering under my tongue
until I gave in and sucked socks.

The addiction to garments came
after the addiction to phalanges-
when you would cover my arms
with red knee-highs and pin them
to my shirt to keep me from nursing
my thumb, and when I did it anyways,
you pinned sock to stomach; a bright
home-made straight jacket.

In the evenings, you walked us,
two midget lunatics in animal
harnesses and leashes, once around
the block while the neighbors thought
you were crazy, because they didn't
understand what it was like to raise
twins alone with only latex and hot air
to tell you where they are. You painted

balloons on the bedroom wall: blue
like the ocean by the summer
house. Like my mother in July,
and the water that kept trying
to steel her children away.

I was drowning in my dreams,
and would've screamed, but I could not
breath. I cried and my tears flooded
the room, crept down the hall
and brushed the feet of your bed.
They tickled toes, which were always
cold in the summer. When you came

you looked liked the candy witch
of my dreams, scraggle-haired
and wild eyed in a pink-stripped
robe. You held me and brushed tears
through my hair and sang sad lullabies
until you fell asleep. I could hear words
in the whisper of your breathing.