she loved me when i woke up

bracketed by her legs, dust-skinned, baptized by the sun.

she loved me when i woke up

thighs scorched, dripping blood. she swept it up before my father came home for the

weekend. he bled like a working man, jet lag and jagers leaking out of him.

she loved me when i woke up
thirty six kilometres from home, one arm across my waist, four more inside me.

squeezing. i bled soul-pulp. when i crawl through my window that night bathwater is

flooding, bergamot and lavender and spruce. i rinse myself out, deposit a mass of bone-
fruit on the bathroom floor; half a woman, half my guilt. i write it down in my calendar:

remember to go back to church.

she loved me when i woke up

biting steel between my teeth, deep throating a sword. i thrust my sin under the bed and

go downstairs. that morning, i tell my mother i don’t love men. she mourns her unborn

grandsons and locks me in the dishwasher. i hear her weep, or maybe it’s the running
water. they sound the same.