First Wound Kept Open

The thought

of all the grass

blown over to one side

hurts me. That wind

can do that. I must have

gotten to him first

though he pushed out against

the little pouch in me

I now call soulless.

Of everyone I’ve met

on earth I always find

they got here first

and will they teach

me their good

reason for staying?

I would discipline

a comet against

my way of leaving,

push it out of sky after

sky and after

every loss on earth

the baby I was

would come back. That’s

what it means to be lovable,

to give oneself whole

again whole birth

whole placenta whole

breast whole milk

whole fist whole flower

but only what fits

harmlessly whole

in the mouth.

The baby comes and goes,

comes back to weed me

of my body, feeds my

bald birdies

what’s not for me to know.

I had hoped that all

my animosity toward men

would lead toward

safety in one who

would wake me before

I hit the wooden world

and rock me there

to say what violence

had not yet come.