Exorcism

Pink the body. A stomach,
overflowing with deer.

Think of the rain licking up
its dirt. Think of what it means

to be clean. A girl, swallowed
whole in the word should,

the moon settling her shoulders
like milk. A tide pool, brimming

with light. Think of the deer,
the men. Think of the way this

was never skin. This warmth,
these hands. This mouth, this wanting.

Salt

It starts with June
and it ends with June.

It starts with sweat,
the god of afterglow.

It starts with the river
moving sexless

in a steeple of birds,
carving its edges out.

Horror Story

When it is dark out, riverwater
and windows refract the same

sort of stillness. What I want
most is crawlspace, an opening

that nests and spreads
on the cusp of itself. A swarm

of tall grass with a hole
carved out. I want to know

about the wild animals,
hold something up to the moon

and see it run back to me.