What chance the mother won
said when she comes to a road,
it will be silver or sponge.
A seam let in the fallen-down nursery.
She knows of lead-blood,
and knows the crib-hunt followed
into others’ tall houses
gifting speed and broken windows.
Pink nails at the bed-hem sheening.
Ready with cloth to swaddle.
wake of winter
and her shiver
You see, said,
when it lines
like limes in hand.
Said, what do you know,
I'm carrying again.
Lullaby for Shedding Scales
Here a twin at the pinched coast:
of shore, of salt, of snouted grass and turned up beach.
Here a twin made of miniature doubles:
alewives, for example
foam, for example, gills trapped in the wash.
Resemble twin, toothless and sharp.
And rough wing-fins
And sand beds
And many lines of tide for bathing,