Barbed wire in front and slough
behind
mire and thistle on either side,
I want
to float over the green throat of
the ditch.
I am without hands but at my
words
the daughter who fell into the
iron vat
stands again on the ladder in her
muslin dress.
I am without legs but at my
command
the prairie grass and wild onion
lean
and echoes scatter their pebbles—
you left your girl alone with the
boiling soap.
You had a mouth then to call
with.
Why is this pasture passing
through me?
My shoulder is full of timothy.
Indian paintbrush thrusts from my
hips.
Milkweed breathes from my rib
cage.
I am left gnawing and the child
stays lost,
but here are the wild
strawberries
lush like my grandfather’s head
that the priests chopped in
Prague,
—that was real blood, gutters of
it.
How can I stay afloat when moth
orchids
stuff themselves into my gullet?
I had feet but now only caps and
stems.
Mushrooms burden each toe, grass
takes
my name. Sun
remains—skillet-iron,
an anvil. I am
vanishing—fingernails,
hair, skin becoming clouds, bones
nests for the wrens, even guilt
withers.
Yet it keeps hurting this turning
to dirt.
