is us mother
the hunger that hangs
afraid of what is real
the moccasins you forced me to wear
mademoiselles stitching fallopian tubes
yes it was me you heard
yet you rearranged
liquid suppers sipping saints
it’s me who refused your fur
your good lords famously digesting bones
your sixty six candles sinking like dry grapes
shameful isn’t it – my age that is
fortunetelling this unshaped fate
the gravity you snuggle
instead of holding me
Dispensing the oak that lives
The accumulated touch
Pocket picking moss
Twig dancers recycling my youth
Filling my neck with love
Handful with leaves I love now
Heels fumble the grey pompons above my head
It stucco arches like yolks scrambling pans
Lovesick almost like
Me who collects tribes
The virginal prayer skirting dust
Vanity in the envious corner
Attaching me to heavens
Backtalk woman sometimes
Hazardous fingers self steering my skull
Until my owls maps-out a better route
