in the throats of fallen birds. Dust on tongues,
how long must we wait for ashes?
the nests he made. They are like words
shaped by the body which inhabits them,
plaited with grass and twigs, with twine,
blue ribbon, with shreds of paper.
You begin to grow drowsy,
but the once velvet sleep you took for
granted no longer flowers into peaceful
Rusted through, the stoveheart of this house.
The television glows in cancer blue,
and floorboards gently stain the kitchen red.
Look at us now with our bludgeoned
hands held like empty weapons to the stars.
Finished ironing, I emptied extra water onto
cement, reluctant to climb stairs back into
Every time it rains, the foxes pull apart
with their claws a rainbow and commence
a procession through it, walking on
all fours to the town square for a wedding.
If one / could slough pain, let wind come.