most recent poem (taking title suggestions)

[delyrium]

I fold my hands
across my chest and wait.
Breath in. Breath out.

The tired rhythm.

She points to the knots in the woodwork,
umbilicated apparitions
of branches sawed from trunk.

~

I have this apocryphal memory
of the initial cut. The knot,

producing navel. The untethering.

Of course, it's nonsense.

Imagined.

~

I think we are arranged in rows

like leaves that grow parallel on
either side of a branch.

Bifarious.

~

When I was six, she miscarried.
I felt the naught,

the swansong, blooded river
and abrasive outpour

the chemical cleanup.

~

She tells me the heart is a hollow
organ that fills and fills.