hodges adams
from where i was once within
wick trim and months
elapse i cannot
braid my hair
don’t eat don’t fuck
the lake kills
silver fishes deposits
them on the sand scrum
of algae and lack
of butter the deep
wheezing breathing
machine i dissect
sonnets in the house
of the dying—
missing the turn
in the road over
deep scarlet paint
stain or something
killed then dragged
into the grass and
wildflowers a deer
judging by the volume
of blood you never see
it no matter how i point
look, there, site of violence
and birch trees you
keep calling my home
the ocean despite
the lack of salt
when the light
hits the lake
it breaks
my heart i
enter undressed
and the water
curls around me
to hold my wrists
and cunt the only touch
i want, i open my chest
and let the lake lick
my sternum my
ungendered thighs
my mother breaks her finger
there is little breath
in the house of the dying
i am a daughter
at least. i don’t compromise
on my body but i don’t
correct the language.
daughter when we haul
the mattress onto the balcony
daughter until i run out
to the lake alone
bluer than reality
i leave on the
same day
as the birds.