Through a lit window in the soil, an unseen
garden. Ear to the ground & a whimper
of blood. 	              The unholy histories of a thousand	
            dresses		suddenly	clamoring against skull 
& bone, clamoring with the heft of roses against 
the eaves.	Girl, you bloom just the same, perpetually engaged 
in a long argument, blade
		         held scrupulously 
			to the neck. Nothing lets up because the blade	
is you, is your mother, is the scent of marigolds 
	balled into a fist.     Is—       every rain-swelled seed sunned
into shadow before another man makes the whole world	
creak.		Upstairs, yours too a humble 
	mouth,	a tiny ache 	burst      into a tumult       
						                         of flowers.