by Katie Kilcup
She wears a white, floppy hat in the garden, right arm small
and boney against her side, injury at birth. Bleached tooth
in the grass. Some futilities rise to the surface.
Two kinds of dark night. Wandering around the empty
rooms of a house. Mustard Nitrogen rides her. Train rides
tracks. One night, two pains. A third:
the hydrangeas. Half-planets of dapple, bloom and honey,
a taste of the whispering skin inside the heart. Valve.
Fluttering of sting and dart and swallow.