(He) Homeless, (I) Pitiless by Maya Renaud-Levine (16, New York)*

​I. 
the man at our door talks of showers.
his gray lips foam sudsy white and steam 
billows blue with every syllable
dir-ty. got-none. could-ya?
in my mind, melting droplets 
rim his forehead like lace.
i think of how he’d wear them like a crown.
i think, probably drugs.

---

II.
he names my brother buddy and
my mother beautiful.
as he sits on our stoop 
his cracked fingers unfurl banana peels
like silken ribbons
spooling in his lap.
his husky coughs paint stone portraits: 
daughter, basketball, the hard life.

inside, i glare at the faceless 
words on my page
I think white powder and steel bars 
his weight against our door 
pushing down on my neck. 
i bring the brownest bananas 
down from the kitchen, 
only when asked. 

III. 
when she lets him inside,
my mother parts the room 
with her stare and meets my 
eyes midair.
vowels dribble down my 
chin.
she lays a bar of soap 
on a folded towel 
like a sacrifice.
in my room, the creak of pipes
makes me itch.
as the water falls,
my blood clouds with kicked-up mud

IV.
now, each week 
he unfolds our plastic containers like origami 
ripe with steam
lifts the bananas
tucks the money. 
wraps himself in my father’s old shirts 
like wings.

he tells us stories of how he comes to us, 
how he trusts these kind people. 
tells us, as if they are strangers. 

when we don’t answer the door, 
he rasps it’s me 
like a password. 
like it means something.

V.
yesterday, he told my father he loved him.
squinted down at the ten dollar bills 
as they lay gutless in his palm.
as if from the bottom of a well.

my brother named him friendly.
my mother named him lonely.
my father said this is getting ridiculous, 
overturning furniture in search of boundaries

VI.
perhaps, this American water has
poisoned me after all.
strangers, beware.
i am murky headed and churned

but - am I not the spindled girl,
is he not the splintered man? 
wolf and lamb, that is my discomfort.
it sits stone-like in my stomach. 
I cannot find its soiled root or explanation. 

VII.
i do not answer the door anymore.
from the living room, I pretend not to listen.