At the edge of the field, we see the angriest bodies.
The spell is in the wrists. The spell is in the shampoo.
Girls with long throats and a penchant for divining rods.
Seven years ago and the house burned beneath the moon
opening itself like a mouth torn out of a book. All the
minnows died overnight in their buckets, silver bodies
boiling on porches. Lightning bugs faltered in olive jars,
and our jawbones ached with want. Still, the mice shred
newspapers in attics filled with cages ripped
from hooks in parlor walls. In parlors ripped
from a woman’s skin, all eyelets and hooks. At the edge
of the field we watched with matches in our skirts.