Each year in March, on the eighth day,
the one we’re allowed to call ours,
slowly, Jess reads our names . . .

hoover witch mum / mum on the rocks / mum’s coach horses / all the king’s mums /

speaks whale, speaks star
breathes in  — tight as a tomb
breathes out — splintered crackle

Rack and stretch her, loosen flesh
from bone. A jointed bird will not squawk.

A woman somewhere is typing on the internet
            my heart wakes me up like clockwork.

At breakfast my man sticks a purple
magnolia bud in my soft boiled egg.
The flower opens, distilling to lilac.

Sometimes I’m surprised there’s light
in dark places, those corridors, those alleys
where you wouldn’t stray if you didn’t need

Trends of lead, silver, copper, and zinc
vein the middle of Missouri . . .

. . . something, cold
wet and bitter, saline
sided by yellow sand . . .