Postpartum

I held it, my small horrid. It fit

in my lilypad palm. Beneath thin

grey skin, its moldy organs flapped and

fluttered. I found shelter in a book,

placed it upon the soft and yellowed

pages. At twilight it became restless

and the cradle’s paper wings snapped shut.

I wept for the flattened childthing,

fine and pounded like a cutlet and

wondered what kind of mother am I.

Impure Thoughts

In hopes of a swan-neck, I tilt my

chin in the mirror and a childhood

National Geographic floods over.

She wears a brown dress, grey bun, gold band.

She tries to howl. Drawn in flames, he holds

her neck, a vase about to spill

prairie flowers and cool creek water.

The other holds a feathered knife to

her widow’s peak. All of this wrong, the

flushed feeling still crawls between my legs.