The Bough Has Broken
Lulla-babies. As usual, you’ve misread.
(Everything, the world, words, Alicing.
What body parts besides the eyes—-bitches--
betray your age? How many holes
have you gone down already? ) Babies,
lulled. Babies, Dead. Sing a song
to your arms; serenade that empty cradle.
Roses explode every day; no one notices.
Babies are born every day. Or, miscarried.
Prick. Your blood is brown and black
and red. The flow is slowing. How old
are you now? Then? Don’t tell them
how it fluttered in your belly,
how it revved. The man in the moon,
the ghost in your womb are silent
as they cease to pull; complicit.
You will chew your arms off
and wait for wings. You will slit
the night open as you fly through it,
a moth that feeds on tears.
You will chew holes the size and shape
of fetuses into every woman who backs
away, every mother who does not say:
I’m so sorry for your loss.