An Expert in the Field of Giving

I spend a lot of time thinking about the nurse who wiped the blood off my legs after I gave birth. I like to picture her doing other loving useful tasks—deboning a chicken for her neighborhood block party or wiping bird shit off commemorative plaques. Then she’s home, rubbing lotion on her feet and declining phone calls.
                      I think the cloth was warm and the blood was mine. I think we talked about how the baby cried before her body was out, how I was momentarily a being with two loud heads.

Sweet Teeth

Apo comes home with a new hip, a bowl made of copper that we touch through her sweater.


they look like tiny, ripped-out human hearts.


I swallowed it whole and a hedge burst from my breast, brambles grown thorny around my heart.