What It's Like to be Murdered by Your Muse

First, she lets you remember the sun
on your ex-lover's back as you fold
into each other like fresh
laundry near the window.
She whispers. And you, you remember
the contours as he moves like sound-
waves.

Next, she brings out
her weapon; possibly a shank, sharp
like November nights when frost can slice
you slant-wise along your ribs.

Gentle and quick-like, she splits
your neck; a cheap smile to an empty room.
    (Brace yourself, baby, it's gonna’ sting.)

Finally, blood laps against your feet; one last
Tennessee lake as you sit.

Dying.

Indiana Shorebird: Part 1

What would it be killing the first Black-
Bellied Plover?

1871 and for science.
1871 and for feathers (possibly
                for hats).
1871 after migration (for food,

                for sex)

Who doesn't run for sex
Who doesn't die for science

Cherokee & North Highland

After pumping gas I realized I had lint tangled in my braid. How many people noticed?
Probably none.
Instead, they saw the sleeping horses inside my chest; only an hour before,
thundering around my rib cage with no restraint.

Balmy days are best at regarding my confessions:
silent Hail, Mary's until I bleed.
                   sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. 
                   and sorry to you, especially.

Picking at the black speck in my flax, my soul remembers:
                   blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs
                   is the kingdom of heaven.
And, I might add,
                  broken are their bones under the weight
                 of grief.