I am named for the parsley my mother swallowed by the bushel, to try and flush her womb of me. I was not so easily got rid of.
When I cloud-gaze, I forget I’m a single human in the great big world. I focus on the flowers in the sky, and I melt.
If each grieving woman could hurl worlds down, the worlds would not stand long.
She whispers tales of angry daughters / and mad wives, / of stolen children / and disrupted lives…
rule me worthy, Lordly Flock, / fly low and cheerfully carouse.
Skeleton Woman bared the fisherman, slipped a finger into his warmth, retrieved the heart, clasped it to her core.
I would have a word / tucked under my tongue / that would crack a man's bones / until they splintered through flesh.
She thinks of / ripe tomatoes on the sill, an oven full of fruit simmering, / a fire on the verge of blaze.
See, she’s not scared of getting lost walking down some unknown side street—no, not when she’s walking straight toward the real monster on her own.
I can only remember how pale she was, how I wondered what weights she was carrying in her soul to bow her head so low.
Her heart is always singing a song, always coming up roses, always aching to be touched and to touch in return.
Outside the snow sifted through the air like powdered sugar. Betty climbed from the baking table, crumbs showering the floor like a way home.