What a time to be stitched from air To be made
of fog and salad leaves To know nothing and have

everything pass through without a trace At thirteen
I am beautiful and severe I read Genesis seven times

a year At a country funeral A rocky graveyard cropping
off into pines A cousin says she sees her father

in the form of a crow An aunt we do not know accusing
You girls are touching nothing And it’s true

The grease-kissed paper plates and bulk meat and three
The biscuits flaking into beans and brown cake

with its effortless center Turning over the idea of a body
breaking into flight The sky blasted bleach blue

Creeping downstairs to find a church mirror smeared
with pimple clouds and orchid cloth light To briefly

look and linger To consider asking for a little bit more