Pre-History
I will never come home
to babies –
carriages of little moons
with fine hair.
I have made peace
with Daddy,
have known
the silver leash of love.
My body –
its soft history grown softer still.
There is snow in my room
a broken faucet
old mirrors on opposing walls.
You have seen me hung
with pearls
in a slow boat across the Lethe.
Look
deeper
still
My remedy:
soot and steel
knucklebones
sad fragments from the sea.
You wish to know me
call me mistress prophet
an inconvenient queen
to harness my tongue
(cautious commander)
and get me
on my knees.
The Los Angeles Press 