Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
Always there is a dock, the possibility of splinter.
File by file, tall ligaments of ash-light, the fathers
move across the wooden slats, careening into water.
The bed is a ...
In the impossible, we bring home to roost
a discordant feeling—widow buttons in all black
still with our funeral rings. My lovers, all buried,
twisted in the soil, can never fathom
the wing that will bite me back, but you touch me
where my grin shines brightest in a noxious ...