The Esnoga— see time’s horses / slipping down / YOUR holy walls / / her 400 year-old bricks / and glass / Sabbath’s opaque light
I would give up God for this poem. No more prayers, no more hymns, no more white lilies on my granny’s grave.
The paper birch unscrolls sheaf / after sheaf through long wintry / afternoons. The snow speaks glitter / / and patience.
Having birthed, my womb is still / full of creatures. My first son / names them and names them, and calls / forth another with each new naming.
Sometimes, I think you put the demon inside / my esophagus so you’d have something to watch.
I was born with aggressive toes / turning mother’s face / clockwise / early morning, alarm, alarm / nothing good / happens before dawn
