you’re lucky / I’m a good fisher / she lets drops / of your body fall / to the floor
Sometimes you have to smoke things out. / Sometimes you have to kill something to see it up close.
that fucking prayer for rest / didn’t work for either of us / instead I pull up flowers by the root
Sitting there on a fold out chair in New Orleans, I have never been kissed. I can feel how a fetus might sit inside me.
when you’re tired of yourself / you can be tired of
If I resurface, disinter, / I have lived in this canvas, in this frightening frontier. / Nothing’s discouraged me.
The children,/ mine, wanted their feet splashing among waves. The man,/
mine, wanted to be succor, balm/
I wish for a vampire / killing kit / antique box / with a bronze / crucifix, holy water, a hammer / stakes / the face of my Lord /
How my throat / would cough up its need to the wind as I followed / winter’s trail
Somewhere beneath the backyard, the earth unmasks,/ unmoors. Ocean-like and map-less. All location dissolved in light.
We unpack a bowl / of fruit, blistered tomato, / limes rotten from too much love. / I rescue the soap / from the yard.
I tell myself I am leaving & it is the smoke climbing headfirst out the window /