Like half eaten apples
naked mothers pose for their well-dressed daughters.
Wind in a glass drowning in its own voice.
In the throat of a rose language is strangled.
The world is a hollow humming and
the limits are lace.
A thousand tiny fingers make beautiful mistakes.
The traffic is a ripping seam.
A wound to the back of the heart.
An axe in wood.
Prayers on my fingertips.
From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.