I will layer him in moss and wool.

As the leaves begin to murmur his pulse

and the trees around us bend in celebration,

I will tell my father that I love him,

that it is okay, and that I won’t

get lost on the walk home.

Taxidermy

Five years after your daughter’s death,

your still cry in the juniors section

of department stores.

You preserve her bedroom like a taxidermist.

Her unworn prom dress still hangs

like a skinned mermaid in her closet.

Cancer entered your home like a greedy tenant,

posed himself into family portraits,

slept in your daughter’s bed,

swallowed all her blood cells.

Once, when she was in the other room,

her blood being read like tea leaves,

the doctor suggested not to bother

with college applications.

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell her.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

Sometimes you think she knew,

as she methodically filled out

each question and box,

it was never for her.

There is still a stack of unsent applications

hidden like tumor in your dresser.

She kissed every envelope goodbye.

You couldn’t bear to send more of her away.

When she passed,

quietly like a note to God,

all you wanted was to swaddle her

in your arms like an infant, bring her home

from the hospital, fragile and new.

Breastfeed her back to life,

potty train and finger paint,

re-teach her the alphabet,

retrace her first steps

back to you.

To lose a child is like giving birth in reverse.

It is slow and it rips, planting a permanent lump

in your throat.

When chemotherapy pulled out

the last of her hair, you started carrying

her baby teeth in your pocket: A reminder

things can grow back.

The Dog’s Medicine

He baits the pill, wraps it

in expensive cheeses.

Sometimes, she is stubborn

like an ungreased door hinge.

He curls her neck between

his shoulder and forearm,

their bodies adjoined

like a clasp of a necklace.

He pushes the pill

down the inside of her jaw.

I hear it click against

each tooth, like a child

running a stick along

the legs of a fence.

She huffs and struggles

and drools, her mouth filled

with what she doesn’t know

is good for her, yet.

When it is swallowed,

his hands are shaking.

Her inability to protest,

the bitch just can’t say no.

To The Woman Hitting On My Boyfriend:

Do you know

how many people

I kill in my poems?

What about the word commitment

do you not understand – Too many letters?

Not enough pictures? Was it not on the cover

of I’m a Dumb Witch Magazine?

(Now I’m a feminist so I avoid

using the B-word in spirit of sisterhood.

But sister, just because I’m a feminist

does not mean I won’t cut a bitch.)

You are not discrete.

There is nothing subtle

about pulling my boyfriend aside