There is the ghost of a child in me. It longs to die, so afraid of living.
You’d probably prefer to sneak back into me very still, swollen.
I slipped one sparrow black and shivering into my mouth.
forget how to count starting with your own age starting with even numbers
The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.
I dream we ride together in a Subaru to the county fair.
Buckled by time and tides, the pier fails halfway to the deeps.
By Wednesday morning I’d fallen in love with someone else.
My husband collects bruises, counts how many rise above the skin.
The celebration stops, like a sparrow hitting a sliding-glass door.
The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.
My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.
What I eat, that heap has eaten. What I like, it gets, but less of.
Motionless at the window. Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons.
I know about sex. It’s not a cardinal flying into the wrong window.
They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.
We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.
There’s anger in the sound of a V-8 engine that puts me at ease.
I blush whenever that room in Ensenada comes to mind.
Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.
Welcome to my bed. I have these two beers, do you want them?
If every present is possible, how can we have eyes to see?
i was a wild thing down by the river, quiet like wild things are.
I drag my sheets as Earth drags her tangled mess of tides.
There was only the gulf of our steps, our breathing brittle as string.
Exhausted, androgynous, delirious, I delight in my many parts.
In hushed awe they talk of things to come, a golden time of flowering.
I'll pick a black card of luck for you: star, pinkmoon, mirror, ostrich eye.
I dug a hole in you; I jumped (here is the church, here is the steeple).
I’m going to save up against the flood and stagger to carry nothing.