from THE BIRD ARTIST
The women in the garden hide knives in their smiles, stones in their pockets.
After lunch, rip each other limb from limb, sugar in the sockets,
but poison in their mouth. This one, a wayward husband,
the mute daughter and wandering dog. Another, the barren womb.
The tether that won't hold. Soap in her insides nightly,
rubbed til she's red. The bed he placed inside her, where nothing
quickens, nothing licks the loins like the boy in her youth, Fists full of wildflowers.
All the spirits gathering nightly, but nothing in the belly but feathers
and dirt. What hurt in his stare where the blood blooms
cleanly between her legs. What hope, the way she sings softly, knitting
the smallest things for the tiniest children that slip out of her
in the night. The red sheets on every line
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