This is a different kind of dark than the one beneath a bedcover, more like the one inside a fist, a dark where we can’t see our own arms and can pretend for a while that we haven’t yet been booted from our mothers by that god who gets paid to kick girls out of the womb...

I thought it was better that way, for the cricket to be swallowed & carried inside a body so that it would never know lonely.

He said once: the moon is a man who will marry you someday. At the bay, my wife calls to me in a language he never knew. Her mouth around my name: the moon.

I sirened I lamped my bones and the boys mothed to me
said woman I’ve got to have you halve you
like a river I have no memory of being named