The moon must have assumed the shape of a vessel; or a plate of mother-of-pearl with no memory yet of the future. Its eyes were a minefield into which too many flowers were tossed, as if more could lead to atonement. You don't know what the clock told it; how can you trust a face with hands that hinge open more than they come together? There are some things you just know will happen. The women in your family joke about pulling out babies by the feet or by the hair. Roots find their way through galaxies of humid ground. Dirty radish faces, damp fronds; the strange urge to name what breaks away in banners of amnion and blood. Milk soon leaks through gaps in the teeth. And water doesn't really break. Your skin can only hold it in for so long.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.