The Returns
The first time he buried me,
he carried my body to the fallow acre
the Smiths rotated through
their strawberry farm. I did not bear
any fruit he could see.
Beetle by worm, I began
to appreciate patience.
The second time he took a cleaver
to sever each limb from torso.
My main he interred
behind my childhood shed.
I drank air through soil
among the skeletons of Binky and Bonnie
(gerbils) and Cleo, Angel,
Mags, and Chip (cats);
wondered if my body hair
would thicken into fur.
The time, when he strode in
to the sight of me, filthy, gleaming, whole,
he flinched. Now I could pack.
Photo with Ghost
From my mother’s clothes, I saved three cotton nightgowns for myself. The hospital letter said I could bring a gown, so I took the pink, new-like for my MRI. I arrived, and the assistant said I could wear my street clothes. I stared, apologetic and vacant. I stared, stilled. I put my bag with the pink into a designated locker. I climbed onto the scanner’s curved bed more vulnerable than anticipated.
The Kindling 