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suppose i knew, and held the dogs off
in a room without babbling, i had him
in a bed made of wind and womb
enter the year with the scowled jaw,
i was a tired bride, a tired prize.
if i heard you, little heartbeat,
oh, i can’t make a body stay, for it would
so i carried you off, little spark
a woman i know who is part-mother tells me, if you had gotten pregnant
love, it is a season of trances,
he says, not this year or the next, but maybe
and they baited me, drawing
sometimes i swear in the distance
mother, i am such a bother, my drift and tear,
but then there was no one way
i was not a center, i was a spade,
sister, i exhale through my own bandage
a woman i know who is part-mother tells me,
i encounter a sort of doom,
you were on the moon. where
i wake from the ruffle and bandage of sleep
my mother at the throat of dawn, her head
broad strokes, i gave you,
i came to you cathedral-mouthed,
a woman i know who is part-mother
sometimes like a haven is another’s
a mess in oils, greyscale,
i would call her lucy, loulou, little bird. and peel her,
moth to a flame, to a mouth:
sister, everything darkens or splits
or how i deemed myself unfit
stranded by some evening, its round fist,
i tell you i am so sweet on so
a back deck increment blinks
the stage of the mood depends
mother, this is not the garden you spoke of,
the closeness i wanted. the held and the heat.
mother, i comb my psyche for weeds,
to go headfirst into such a question,
from this patience begets a rattling, murmur
maybe i will call it a juncture
sister, what happens at the branching places,
a woman i know who is part-mother tells me,
we watch red desert and rocks
lucy waking, clutching the fence of the crib,
mother, i pair your ardor with wonder
i have a way of being stepped on when
mother, all things are heaven or
and the women around me, my sirens,
a couple of orgasms before noon, work
or what of the ending,
a woman i know who is part-mother tells me,
sister, scent is a marker, a marigold
a woman i know who is part-mother asks me,
love, the thought enters my mind
i give it a week, a month, four years,
so what we have come to, says, childless,
what does it feel like? to chase without
and how did we come upon it,
after all this, the riddles, the deep and flowered