A binary will not solve the oil,
Cannot stop the Qallupilluit’s cold hand.
Can you crack the hoary ice?
From salty lumps and fissures,
Rise like an old answer,
Blowing?
Before the blood, we dug tubers from the garden, but my palms tore on shapes harder. “These bones are my mother’s. If we throw them over our shoulders we’ll re-seed the soil.”
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“Hard to separate the past from the present. This noose tells me we’re still dealing with the past.”
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he pulls his teeth through the pages
clean of the blood spilt by the words
sorrow hanging in the corners of his
mouth
There’s a term for vanishing. Occupational hazard.
Or womanhood.
Or wrong place, wrong time. Or there’s no place for
the state in the bedrooms of the nation.
sweet unbecoming
and becoming, ravelling and
unravelling, hand woven womb
shifts, water breaks, gushes
like blood
There are always secrets in small towns.
The wizard misses his ex who cursed my henhouse,
the black egg laid heavy on the incubator
All my knowledge is not enough to stop dead men
from reaching out for a handful. On this head,
wildflowers grow in surplus. Dead men with soft hair
reach out and try to pluck at my head for flowers to
lay at their graves.