Laying-in
I don’t know why these women
trust Mom
Her bone rosary
and ever present murmur
Holy Pater Father of etcetera
pray for us now
at the hour
of our death
She’s someone to whom
the worst has already happened
Even though it was
nothing
She’s got a hand
for the trimester sweat
on their brows
For the breech birth
and the umbilical noose
Sometimes she takes
my chin
Fingers my jaw like a blade
Says Oh yes
You too will be there
Stretched out
Wretched as a frog
With a pin in your spine
My own little grenade
After the movie
After the vanilla shake
sluggish as concrete
And the taste of them
Their virgin salt
I think of the martyrs
How Miss Raylene goes on
about the science applied to them
How they got to be in gold books
afterwards
wrapped in crimson threads
with those wide sleepy eyes
that see nothing
about the author