Girl-bone, born in small barns,
from a skeleton-leaf wood,
trailing a cape of bloodied feathers,
coming toward, me with my pork-chop mouth,
carrying a distraction of flowers.

Girl in ladyslippers, toting a computer
briefcase that quacks like a duck.
My mischief of little remedies,
my last great love before dying,
no matter what years it takes
my sad body to kill me.

A milk-yoke in a plastic forest,
an apple cored and thrown
among the ferns,
carrying all your old hurts,
a brave little lady.

I want to get out of my body
and cloak you with a hood
of anti-matter. I'd like
to find something to feed you with
that comes before and after time.
Take my body, though it's not enough;
protect the work of my hands,
though the world iced it.