prayer book underwater 

underwater the car moves slow.
there are eight door bells &
i know one of them is supposed to be
yours. they all ring when i hestitate
to touch. i hold my father's had & it's
dry like plaster. it comes apart: 
hunk of dry wall. i forgot my shampoo
so i rub my fingers into a lather,
down to the knuckles. which hand
will you use to hold a pencil? which
hand do you use for scissors-- pulling
three of them out of my backpack
& laying them in the grass. i use scissors
like prayer books. there was that
tiny leather bound book of the Our Father
that we found at the flea market.
sometimes i forget the words & the book
shows up on my windowsill, a dead bird.
it's empty now, you spoke the text out
of it. sometimes i do that to myself
i speak the text out of me & last night
in the molasses night i felt everything
stop: bugs mid sentence mandibles open.
i'm sitting in my aunt's living room
while we plan to depart again, like before
we left for disney world. they're boiling
hot dogs & the a re-run of the Phillies game
is on. they play underwater. the catcher
drowns & they fish him out so he doesn't
get stuck in the filter. i crouch on
the blue ottoman while aunt joan cries--
her facing smearing, a bowl of foundation.
i make empty promises with my thumbs--
smoothing her back into place. 
it's okay it's okay it's okay.
one time she told me she was shrinking
& ever since i've become aware that gravity
seeks to push us like zucchini seeds
back into dirt. underneath her layers 
of makeup is wrinkled  elephant skin--
grey as stone. we all have this-- we all 
have this. outside in the honey 
i thought of you & him &
how much better it is to watch
two other people fall in love than to
fall in love yourself. i saw both of
you breathing underwater like i can't.
i kissed your foreheads which were 
also the hood of my car. no--
my father is driving. my father is
driving even with a crumbling hand. 
you never found the nozzle on my neck
where the air comes out. i would have
asked you to bite it. the prayer book
gets up to stumble out like you before
i turn the light on. tell me
tell me-- are you a prayer book or
a pair of scissors? 
i'm looking for the door bell-- all
eight of them-- spreading fingers apart
to press them all at once. 
you talk about loving him like the
whole world could flood & you wouldn't
notice. i want to stop noticing. 
i convince myself to drink but of
course it's salt water. the night bugs 
float to the surface. up high beyond
the moon-line i see both of your bodies 
holding hands like new star formations.
down here i look for the foundation
i used to put on when i was a girl. 
it's in the medicine cabinet. my father
is there. i put on his face too.
he closes his eyes as i paint over
his lids & then my own.