[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.
It’s good to be incendiary, lit up,
Sparked heel to crown.
Generations are contained
in her wrist bones, in whether she can
constrain the nature of the bird.
You’re tempted to find God in every abandoned landscape:
twist of black road snaking through dry grass, shroud
of white hotel cotton, blank heaven that cannot conjure
But real sickness arrived like an invitation
slipped under the door
I got my legs waxed. I needed someone
to hurt me a little.