You were the pine, softening the dirt I grew up in: the one I climbed in the breeze. Wanting to describe you, I had called you Paulie. That is not your name.

A Bad Spell

The rowan by the house is cracked in two,
her bark ragged, grown good-for-nothing old.

Cousin

I didn’t know who the call was about,
just that it was past my proper bedtime

All at sea on a serenity of sheep,
we played monopoly, box tatty and frail.
Its missing chance cards, no get-out-of-jail.

Mami, I find myself wishing your memory
were a bird of prey—
red-tailed hawk or black vulture . . .

One Winter’s Line

Between underpants and saggy bra,
she hangs her fallopian tubes out to dry.

night knocks inside my dream
at the end of the world
death house
where sawdust covers everything.

If you’re asking how to get invited
To draw at a sex club . . .

After learning about the maternal instincts of seals, I took to listing postpartum offensives