men would rather drown

than nibble,

she does just

fine.

She’d like to show

her brother

what it is like to crawl

up the curved walls

of the earth, or

to be that earth—but

he has other plans.

Which is alright. Which is

As It Should Be.

Let the boy reach manhood

anyway he can.

Easter Sunday, 1940

A purity
in sacrifice, a blessedness

in shame. Lucille

in full regalia, clustered

violets and crucifix.

She shoos

a hornet

back to Purgatory,

rounds the corner, finds

her son in shirtsleeves staring

from the porch into the yard
as if it were the sea.

And suddenly

she doesn’t care.

(Joe, after all, came home.)

She feels as if

she’s on her back

again, and all around her

blushing thicket.

Nightwatch. The Son.

(Aggressively adult,
they keep their
lives, to which
I am a witness.

At the other end
I orbit, pinpricked
light. I watch.
I float and grieve.)

Freedom: Bird’s-Eye View

Freedom:
Bird’s-Eye View

Singsong

When I was young, the moon spoke in riddles

and the stars rhymed. I was a new toy

waiting for my owner to pick me up.

When I was young, I ran the day to its knees.

There were trees to swing on, crickets for capture.

I was narrowly sweet, infinitely cruel,
tongued in honey and coddled in milk,
sunburned and silvery and scabbed like a colt.

And the world was already old.
And I was older than I am today.

I Cut My Finger Once on Purpose

I’m no baby. There’s no grizzly man

wheezing in the back of the closet.

When I was the only one,

they asked me if I wanted a night-light

and I said yes—

but then came the shadows.

I know they make the noises at night.

My toy monkey Giselle, I put her

in a red dress they said was mine

once—but if it was mine, why did they yell

when Giselle clambered up the porch maple

and tore it? Why would Mother say

When you grow up, I hope you have

a daughter just like you

if it weren’t true, that I have a daughter
hidden in the closet—someone
they were ashamed of and locked away
when I was too small to cry.

I watch them all the time now:
Mother burned herself at the stove
without wincing. Father
smashed a thumb in the Ford,
then stuck it in his mouth for show.
They bought my brother a just-for-boys
train, so I grabbed the caboose
and crowned him—but he toppled

from his rocker without a bleat;
he didn’t even bleed.

That’s when I knew they were

robots. But I’m no idiot:

I eat everything they give me,

I let them put my monkey away.

When I’m big enough

I’ll go in, past the boa

and the ginger fox biting its tail

to where my girl lies, waiting . . .

and we’ll stay there, quiet,

until daylight finds us.

Parlor

We passed through