For P. E.

Paula, whenever I see you you’re wearing that
    same lousy scarf

Even in July I see it religiously wrapped to hide
    the marks your father gave you

When I saw the picture of your house covered
​    in caution tape, I was on the other side of the
​    world in Japan for missions & when I told you
​    I was going you said, Oh that religious work

Why didn’t I tell you I hate religion too—it’s
​    funny how we always tell ourselves: next time

Remember, we used to bellydance in that
​    basement

The walls, bare except for that one framed picture
​    of Jesus

My father said only prostitutes shake their hips
​    like that & I was always jealous that your
​    father just watched us dance & smiled

Online, your sister said he cried I’m sorry, I’m
​    sorry while slitting her throat with those box
​    cutters—almost as if she were a box that
​    needed to be opened quickly

Sometimes when I’m driving on campus I see
​    you & want to wave but I don’t

I know everyone wants to ask you questions but
​    you don’t have to tell me anything