Plaster of Paris

In the Sicilian pottery shop
squat rows of unglazed vases
harden like skulls

plaster of Paris texture
reminds me of bones
the summer my brother’s hand
flattened like a ray
in the electric mangle.

The hospital nurses
were starched neat as dolls

and afterwards we sat
on a low garden wall
in the dying sun

plucked leaves
from the Escallonia hedge
crayoned our names
on the white cast.