The desperate are animals under the moon
howling infrequently, ******-breeders. I, a part of
the thousand fragrances they simmer upon –
my mouth around a tree trunk that rots
in summer, boiling like eggs or water for tea.

God loves me, he loves me not.
I know I have broken my promises to Heaven –
disappointment lavishes me in aches so velvet
I swear I could make a coat from them.

We scream for womanly voices and pictures on a
wall of mothers kissing or showing a breast,
the ****** is pink. I melt inside my head.
Every morning we scavenge for the same sun –
bright under the glass, soon no one is loved.

Not even my brother hands me his tongue –
when he does, it parishes to black soil
and I pretend it is my child. She has hair just like
us, when she is happy, when she is well.

I rock her until the wolf-hollers halt,
my skin is her mansion. Her sprinkles on me are
as thick as grime doused the door for company
welcome here, she is warm as she is alive
though she didn’t come from inside me, my eggs.