Frozen Peas

Last night, without thinking,
I left out the frozen peas.
Extra Large Super Value Pack,
sitting there on the counter,
only half gone, soggy.

Sometimes I wonder why I leave
right in the middle of things,
forgetting to tie up loose ends,
or to put the goddamned peas
back in the freezer.

Chicken Pox

"Don't scratch," you said
as you poured baking soda
into warm running water.
"Don't scratch,
or you'll get scabs."
I didn't tell you
I already had scabs.
You'd just tell me
not to pick at them.

Twelve was pretty old
to have chicken pox.
"Funny," I said,
"I don't feel like a chicken."
You rolled your eyes,
instructed me to take off
my shirt, corduroys,
pink and white cotton panties.
"Go outside first," I said,
pushing you out of the
already open door.

I was seventeen before
I opened this door again,
before I could walk naked
in my bedroom without shame.
Looking in the mirror, I
examine those two scars 
on my belly, when I sneaked
the socks off, and scandalously
scratched with greedy hands.