I called my shame a mother, grifter, deadwood, fire. I called it black water. Fool’s gold, worthless silt. Nail in a truck tire. I told my shame you’re on thin ice. Roadkill. I shook its shoulders, I said get it the hell together. I told my shame it would never be a plum, whole, unbroken, unbitten. My shame was rotten and I knew it, apple even the deer wouldn’t touch, bloated, gnatted, orchard probably disgusted. My shame listened up. My shame was in perilous condition, my shame needed help. My shame couldn’t reach the counter or feed itself. I felt a little bad, my shame was kind of sweet. I told my shame it could hide with me. I brushed its hair, I shared my socks. We lived in a basement of tough love and dial-up. My shame got good grades, my shame kept the room clean, my shame kept a secret like a crow with a coin. Overfull recycling. We didn’t like the yelling. I remember eating ham sandwiches in our bedroom alone.