Poetry

I used to believe there was bad in my groin. It was proof of a boy’s black hand, forcing my untouched open. I used stiff stitches, canvas thread, salve for my fire’s fits.

Sunday Morning The waves beat on to some tidal heartbeat that heaves a thrum through the world like a funeral hymn. She watches his boat plummet and dip and twist and fall out of sight into some white noise nowhere between water and air, where he is as fragile as scattered fish bones. Sometimes she …

An apple falls, a curl falls, a gaze falls, the sun lands, a dress bunches and itches, the letter goes on and then stops. The tongue organizes the teeth, seats are assigned, a dress whines at the hips. Milk drops to the tongue, the sun moves on.