I came to the field
where last I fed
your flesh to stones,
before the boys spooned you out
and the river pinned you down.
Teeth to teeth, mud to mud.
I found a blue child, face down
in the grass. Her skin
unimpressed by the sun.
A hot sound moved
through her—forgiveness, ticking.
I meant to shovel her from the earth
but she cracked like a milk plate.
I am a troubled woman. I am forgetful.
I recall nothing of your voice.
Only your smile that danced
like static each time you spoke.
The blood wind lifting your face
when I’d press. Now
there is dirt on everyone.
A house of dark confessions
hived beneath our fur.