It is not the planet that carries her through light to night and all the seasons —
I use curtains and switches, and sweetened water in plastic cups with handles and lids.
I can no longer sustain her in a harness on my shoulders, and she asks why:
Why can’t we have cake for dinner?
Why did I have another baby?
Why does he get to cry so much?
Why did I make Granddad die?
I have no god to teach her of except her own small self, who knows nothing of blame.
She trips round the house, laughing yet, her feet swamped in my old black shoes.
i bring you mice unwrapped and see you
squeeze down tidbits of lungs and livers and lick
my lips
we covet something full:
a swan, a hart, but snow
fallout has left all small and greyed my clumsy limbs
never have worked for hunting
yours never, yours can’t want to
mulling vulgar thread over and
under my tongue,
as if from muslin rent with teeth I could
whip up silk and spit
pithy little stitches - - -
shape some snug indulgence
fit to your hips;
present a taste without touching your lips.
death disgusts you less than this these
wet potentiallings weeping without
awareness
without close on pared hands
i wait still lying back i am pushing
back prolonging preventing youpain
long overduelings pressing up at all my lips won’t
pass without tearings
i would never have borne
feel here, in the musty hollows of my ribs. things
will drop like fleas from a stray, splatter
fleshy to your feet, open
wet, entitled infant mouths. push
past the squick, these
pustules of juicy larvae -- beneath,
bones crumble like rotted cheese.