Poetry

if this city is still breaking me  
in with its weather and tethered eye

you be the arch in my neck 
the mane growing from it 

hovering their mouths 

like two men 

moments before 

they turn on each other

that is how the grass smells 

Little beast on the metal table, she took
the needle into her forepaw 

and didn’t flinch. The medicinal death
fit itself inside her, ran the blue and red map,

burned up into her lungs and brain
and heart, which slowed,

and she slept until there was no breath left
and her body emptied itself of air.

My mother is alive and funny
in the house above the marsh.

I think she does not miss my father much
as he is still alive, though elsewhere.