to make her pack her things and run away.”
somebody interjects: “no, no, her husband
put his hands on her and squeezed!”
overheard: “her children died” or “she wasn’t
able to conceive.”
(Arrival)
the butcher tells me her perfume doesn’t
smell right, as if underneath the flowers
something dead lingered there. the old lady
by the chapel says her shadow’s crooked,
bent at the wrong angles, a too wild darkness.
(Residence)
every month, a child disappears. every month,
they crucify her with accusations pouring from their
tongues. every month, a moon rises, blood-stained
and whole; she pulls her blankets closer to her chest.
every month, someone’s son or daughter is on the
ground, with their throats open to the sky,
and something that passes as their parent
(or used to be) lies on the grass and
coating the leaves
a muddy black, sticky tar.
(Routine)
every month, her back and shoulders ache
from the weight of never saving anyone
50