in a pastle drawing i smudge the edges of every door frame. wipe my hands on my thighs & smudge those even larger than before. a seam warbles into a road. my brother is sitting in the corner with his eyes smeared shut. when i sleep i want to be renewed but instead i'm pulled & spread. the water is washing itself clean. a bird lost its wings to a gust of thumb-pressing wind. i am searching for the horizon line my mother drew for us. i'm finding nothing but more mountains to whittle down. it hasn't rained but will soon. all my shirts are covered with handprints. my toes blur into each other. stoplight mixes colors. all the cars park in the street. an alarm streaks into a bird call. i used to sing aloud to myself but now i just hum & the humming slurs my lips. soon i will just have misshapen teeth & a blur of a tongue. what i love about this kind of picture is you can't always notice the mistakes. no one has to know i forgot to give my father a pair of shoe laces & forgot to lock the door but who would enter a blotched house like this anyway. i keep a nightlight on & it spills like in little threads all across the living room. each night i try to convince myself to turn it off-- to let the house go dark but i don't. i try to draw some of the corners back. fix my smeared elbows. give my brother a smile & two eyebrows. draw my lips back. a dull pink in the yellow dim. the mirror shows only my murky silhouette. i am a faint ghost.