hair, curious
even my uterus is filled; the egg slid
to a current, and caught tenderly
couched to a bed of cilium
which waves and falls, shedding down
the breasts a kind of anemone
and each night, coming out
the bird takes locks to nest
there is no identity, there is
only correspondence with adaptation


someday, june will bear spores

it’s a cow-head thing in drawings but,
in pictures it looks like any organ
a red sack and tubes that glimmer wet under light

connected to one thing, or another
a part of something else; alone, nothing at all
is there something to it?

when this bag fills and bursts…
i’ve been there. i forget to yell, so angry at my mother, but,
the good screams come from you

sometimes we are afraid there’s
not enough to go around
what about if there’s no more ______ ?
what would all this be like without your sound?

take it from me
june, that’s what i learned the woman’s cry is

an inside a mother’s fear: do you pity me for doing it?