Dearest

a child, I knew: children love children.

children devour children.

even the cruelest were beloveds.

when fathers fled,

we used a soviet waffle iron,

with a wire like a frayed rat tail,

to feed small friends.

when shame was cast to us,

it birthed a death wish,

our first encounter with towards-dying:

to feed was a rule, to fry leftover buckwheat,

to play mother, savior, saint.

even then, I loved the half-light of magpies.

I saw the need of birds,

the dream of birds: at night,

to silence my father, I closed my eyes,

and the feathers in my bedding began to sing.