june is hungry

drinking milk
on mother
hung up to her shoulder
my muddy bulbs looking over
this stirring summer
even blades gentled green
a living cantankerous thing
hungry, keep drinking
a curious june
held to july’s shoulder
she turns down
the pinched tip
milk to rinse the flower


the advent

we had the answer long ago,
when the bed arrived.
harnessed between posts, the heavy sack of feather
made me dizzy that first night up off the ground
and i awakened often.

the ceiling called my attention now, and so close it appeared,
i thought more about my head, and where it went in darkness.

you slept further away,
curiously, willing to crawl farther,
in the morning to touch me.
with all that room, we realized what had always been there,
just waiting, empty,
and our dreams were not what they had been.

can i answer you?
the history of time is the dream.

the other side is full of breath,
this…pulse-music organizes into being,
and so coming out your mother
is emerging packless
to a valley without echo.

your many others

careful joy crying
how the harbinger does
circle toward the vow

i set you down to see me
and a giggle goes right to
a stern line brow
fascinated by my face
on a face of many others
so telling is trying

for long i have felt a smiling
but it sits inside me out
tucks to find a smile where meeting breast to mouth

in the bath, the first wrinkles
touch your hands, see you are
older than i am, after all, i cry about you

out the tub comes the searching smile
that makes me yours of many others
see the little harbinger
careful joy crying
make me yours of many others


old rags

kneeling in the road, the prostrate thing
had a tail gently lifted

a bound pair of hooves
stuck from an eyelet
through a coarse web of lavender yolk

shaking, the steam from inside her
puffed onto my hands

she spooked and my pooling mouth
choked up, she urged to get off
to the ditch or beyond

for hours she complained high in her throat
and the thing had hardly moved
only at the shins now and pulsing
as she pushed

the knife was wrapped in old rags there


and you heard my voice,
that’s your daddy

i put my breast up to
your mouth,
slippery little fish

studying his face in yours, at once
i saw a nameless thing
i did not know;
and rejoiced aloud,
this was yours alone!

daddy asked you to
look at all these people
to see you were born adored

he showed you to the room
of faces, crying like a baby

they reached out to touch
your feet and your fingers
waving and red, spread wide

i know wanting you is selfish
for to see you
is to see god and us at once
into pieces

the child

i dreamt again of a baby. i am holding it close to my chest, kissing its cheeks eagerly. i am obsessed with its features, its every movement. i bring it close to keep it warm. every thing out of my mouth is nonsense, and all i can seem to do is coo or else stand silent inside myself.

i am filled with the radiant sensation of complete devotion. my being is charged, alive, and dedicated to complete submission and purpose.

sometimes, i dream that the baby is not mine, just simply in my charge. i kiss it all the same. sometimes, the baby is more mine than i can express; and there is a nebulous physical tug perceived from inside my body which extends to the child, is connected to the child, is integral to the child.

sometimes, there is a journey we must take together. sometimes, there is nothing at all required but my affection.