When she calls, tell her to gather her clothes.
Put the blankets
in a paper bag.
Don’t touch anything
of stonewashed blue.
Don’t pluck leaves from her hair
or tug at threads.
The sleeve may fall.
Don’t brush soil from her shoulder
Don’t give her a drink of water just yet
it could wash evidence away.
*
This is what to tell the little ones
fawns left bleeding in snow
these are the parts that are private:
mouth (cover them
breasts with your hands
genitals on your body anus so they know) It’s an
odd Macarena
a child’s game of hand claps and rhythm:
mouth
breasts
genitals
anus.
You can hear the mother’s voice
pear drunk with wasps.
You may anoint the chafe marks of a rope around the neck a
wash of ink whose ends don’t meet.
Raven’s nest woven with the body of a song sparrow
the little body
still pure.
*
Refix the shoulder
the washed bed muddied
in wings.
When swan becomes fist
hold the head of the river in your hands
the tongue to water comes
a thread
of stonewashed blue.
Turn your eye to what is beneath
dry grasses bent
pine limbs assaulted with droplets of light.
Charm the wind and waves into calm
with motions as gentle as forming ice.
She may be afraid of your hands.
Her fingers move like mouths.
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