When the boys are carnivals
we gather round them in the dark room
& they make their noise while drums
after Marina Wilson
Consider the hands
that write this letter.
Last night, all night
the dream, the dead
mother, my small sister,
tiny, her mouth
What to do with this knowledge
that our living is not guaranteed?
Perhaps one day you touch the young branch
of something beautiful. & it grows & grows
The body, bearing something ordinary as light Opens
as in a room somewhere the friend opens in poppy, in flame, burns & bears the child — out.