In place of no, my leaking mouth spills foxgloves,
entire trumpets of tongued blossoms litter the locked closet.
Up to my ankles in petals, the hanged gowns close in,
mother multiplied, more — there’s always more
corseted ghosts, red silk bodies crowd
my mouth. I would say no, please;
I would say sorry, papa; I would never
ask for her again, but dresses dressed
in dresses are dresses own this garnet dark,
this mouth, these hands can’t find
the walls, only more mothers
emptied out.