it is having
someone knows the someone
who says aloud
to my son
in every gravestone
window, a shopworn
with a more
when saying her name, mother would insist the curse words were silent. for swallowing secrets, father had his throat professionally cut. I remember wiping my nose with a shirt darker than blood. instead of good washrags, we had words brought about by having company. mother ran wild through my sentences while father bent to kiss a pillow for sleeping with my stomach. apocalypse came and came. the act was the act’s debut.
the mechanics of the beheading begin in isolation.
exiled from what it bumps into, a form
my mother’s dream doesn’t burn.
the fine publication, Words Dance, has posted a poem of mine: woman as prayer. no kneeling, please.
is it okay
is my father’s
the angel’s mouth is a mouth to feed.
packs a baby
he is born without stones in his hands. she waits with him outside the mother. the mother is their belief her history supports. speech is a passing back and forth of names dogs don’t have. before they desired stones, they’d egg the front of my jeans. the pair