23

the animal tends to arrive at intervals for bloom-watching, surreal juice of our chins pouring off into sticky fields. we open our abdomens like cabinets, our hinges creak. daybreak calls on the landline but we're busy heaving, someone else will have to take it. we oil our lips for screaming, pinch our cheeks bright. we do reverse forest magic in rounds. we stuff our cabinets with cedar, feather, spit, and ash. we roll toward one another and in this way we make one body.
                                             i got my magic wrong
                                                                   having improvised the spells from what i did and didn't know. my unknowing is considerable but i listen well, i listen too well and then i've filled this bowl with wet pulp, i've torn paper in finger-sized pieces, i've whispered to myself through dry yellow roses with my hips up. i am strong but i couldn't find you or carry you around. your letter is in every word, i've let them pile up around me, i've let the needle change me, i go and go into the forest where your voice must live with my good listening and bad ears, spelling you the whole way.