I think you want to be crucified, sometimes,
bobbing my head down for an apple amid the squeals of some
stillborn love child's indigo lips.
You never asked so you don't know
how six weeks I counted his curls backwards
until there were none.
Father's surname feather soft
In a cradle of death.
A fawn shot down,
Bright bullet hole hot springs
Spewing out
On a bed of baby's breath.
We still pull over to examine the wreckage,
Bruises blooming in the reality where I fitted
on your bathroom floor
And death shook my shoulders
While you frantically struggled to catch and steady them.
What's in the blood, really?
It rained hard its coagulated tendrils all through the night,
And I
Just wondered what sunrise looks like in Berkeley.
