Nicole Gounalis

P.S.

I want to go back and fog the glass
of my mother’s bathroom mirror, draw
in all the shapes I have seen.
A cradle for my sister because I know
it haunts her dreams. Its secondhand
nature’s always putting her to sleep.
For my father the oil can
he used on all his cars (and not the secret
rust of his jawbone).
My mother gets nothing but
the shorthand for a smile.
One curved line that points
up in both directions.

Her silence throbs in my teeth.
One day when I scream
it will be her I am angry for,
not me or any man.

There are no ghosts here.

Author Bio

Nicole Gounalis is a second-year student at New York University studying Comparative Literature and Creative Writing. She is from upstate New York.