Sunrise

I grew a mountain
lily in the palm
of my hand while you
were sleeping,
your toothbrush
still tightly wrapped
in that duffel bag,
your boots by the door.

But I held life as it
bloomed under
the shade of my body,
my naked spine turned
towards the sun.

Mannequin 

You bought your left hand
five blocks east of the train station,
stitching it to your wrist,

needle poking through soft flesh
and braiding your veins
like licorice. I think your right foot

is from that greasy pawn shop
downtown. You can trust me,
you said, then the rest of your body

became empty fiberglass
and I still believed you.

Letters Nailed to a Pine Tree

Grandfather, we sold
your little red boat on Tuesday.
My name was still carved into the side.
We catch only sorrow in our nets.

*

These woods don’t speak
anymore. This tree
doesn’t recognize when it bleeds,
sap darkening the paper.

*

I saw the ghost wolves
last night. They ran
through the sky, charcoal paws
dropping stars like snow.