Struck with a stick a knowledge inside me shifts, clicks. Seen by a snake I become again. As if pulling kumquats, golden delicious, blackberries, taro root. Each empty of its sugar, of any juice. I took a name—Lydia, Prudence, opposites—and whispered it in the ear of the wind.




I traced myself in peppermint oil, for protection. Torqued each leaf into place. During the storm, each room filled with water, a jar always brimming. An escape from daily pronouns. I rubbed out the candle and in the dark a fan still swung, slow whooms, whoom, and then it stopped.

No Funeral

You mourn the girl I was / as if I killed her, / as if I left her / in a field somewhere, / shipwrecked in the dry grass –