Poppy seeds scatter across my keyboard.

Chattering songbirds pick them,

as if planted;

as if they prayed for this black mana.

I garde apples in my car, beside the

mallet my mother gave me for self defense,

for another chance at being her handy

man. Her expert supplier, unable to 

differentiate rage from femininity. Unable

to dissociate sticks of arrows from

fragility. Opium & arsenic & lilac wine:

Embalming embers of passion, closed thighs

wrapped in twine. Take a pin-up of

my spine on full display; this, 

my weapon

of choice.

I:

the strongest pronoun

I can give to the world

is the weakest I can give

to my lover.

You did not leave me unprepared,

mother. You did not strangle me

with your tears. I can still breathe

the window air. 

Oviparous obligations be damned

.

When the flock vanished

there were no seeds left.

In their places; the faintest

featherweight intentions,

& an echo of wings

on my lips.