We know what it is to not be wanted,
when our bodies are taboo.
Night limbs, how our eyes
swallow everything
When I was brought into the world,
I looked back.
The trees were heavy with dark.
They say a wicked woman walks
bad luck. What makes a wicked woman?
Irises green with want, barbed tongues
to catch what's coming.
I want to move through the trees
as you do: four palms flush to the earth,
dark river with two wild torches
in a corner: living shadow, the same color
as forgetting.
How many lives
can I hold in each chamber
of my heart?