Vivisectionist at the Beach

Coven of seabirds cloaks out,
carrying on across the sand.

Ludicrous little thieves, leave
me to ruinous rime and the thick

curl of a winter wave—it keeps
cutting at what is left of me—let it,

I like it. I’m long gone and get off
on the glacial gall. Filial farrow,

litter of one, the black crush
clawing me to wait. A girl-god

and her godling. You still linger
in my subtle body—my grim

north and ebb to rhumb. Quit me,
damage. Walk out, now.

Sink to the ultimate profundity
                                                      of whales.


Mother

Fluorescent and suddenly breathable, the air was all mine.

Mine—like the half-eaten wires I find, in the washing machine,
when it’s late, and nobody is around,

because all the bad children are in their beds,
                                                                    because I put them there.

Terrible Creature, Night

For the cold lands, in cold, take
wooden diadems of cloud berries

to give to the village of babies
in their trees, the ones who have

felt slippers and furs but no families.

So more is night, the less ludicrous
morning.

Outside the juniper tree fluctuates.

An old god slumps over, redly,
the babies make fox clucks in their trees.

In each berry is one story.

How hard it will be for each baby when
they ripe, fall from their sleep.

The reindeer goes to wake them,
checks the color of their teeth.