There is No Translation for the Body at Night
There is no translation for the body at night. The crow’s chest drops


as it calls from the wet grass. Sometimes the dead make a nest


of us. Sometimes the dead are still living, sealing envelopes


with thread inside. Wouldn’t you burn if you followed


the old way home? I mean to say I keep finding parts of bone


on the riverbanks that worry me into a collector. I keep & bleach


the already violent thing. And beside me, the water shifts 


like a body in the night. Memory—a crease in the ceiling


growing the dark. Dancing all those years ago, I learned how


to land softly, body caught quiet after dropping through the air.


This is how I deceive you. Water folds over itself no matter—no


matter. Wing held against the ribcage collapsed like a child 
​​​​​​​
in her crib, hands over her ears. There is no translation
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