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.
the afterworld sea
there was a water song that we sang
when we were going to fetch river from the river,
it was filled with water sounds
I run high in my body
on the road toward sea.
I fall in love. The things
the wind is telling me.
You who cannot hear or cannot know
the terrible intricacies of our species, our minds,
the extent to which we have done
The beauty of one sister
who loved them so
she smuggled the woodlice
into her pockets & then into
When I get the call about my brother,
I'm on a stopped train leaving town
& the news packs into me—freight—
though it's him on the other end