Phoenix

Maybe, I love the pain in her best.

How long she can make one meal last.

Having over salted the cod,

our mother rinses

its mouth in the sink,

her fingers brushing from head to tail.

It’s her first time out of bed since Sunday.

Between her shoulders medicine accumulates—

the sun performs its evening

salat. Quietly, she washes away

each coarse grain until she is free

from the memory of the butcher.

Tonight, all the lights inside her

are flickering. All the horses are breaking

their chains and if the wind can split

a single seed, I tell myself

we can will the bees

into resurrecting.

Family Portrait

Upstream, the salmon failed.

Winter caught them

one freezing current at a time.

We lost

the Oak first. The roots crowned,

tired with the earth as we were

with each other. Like fire,

winter had a blue

flame. A bowl

of milk we left out

for the starving

fox.