[S]omeone I can’t dream has left this body
In April snow lingers like a drought.
[T]ell them, dear child, of the female narrative not born
of temptation & sin but of the blood of your blood singing out.
I frame you like a museumed artifact, safe from thievery and me.
Dear broken bread.
Dear broken skull.
Generations are contained
in her wrist bones, in whether she can
constrain the nature of the bird.