grace ezra

I Am Told Again That I Am Not Gentle

An adult deer who has kept her spots and mary janes worn to bitterness and relief you told me that I am not gentle but hardness and ongoing limbs like a laundry line and roadkill’s breastbone and again not gentle yes unkind yes a kissed mouth and yes apples after sex the roadkill is a body separated from its head and its head in a ditch I do something that is nothing like humming the body is bloated and the head’s eyes are clear impossible and oh unbearable evening oh truculent bones and horns beneath my skin and still feeling the flesh

A photo of a field, but it’s really of the moon I watch my ugly winter hands count and change and slice oranges like I make them

The choice for things is to separate or remain whole One must spend half the day in opposition to the other

(My interior world is early)

The moons are drying in the oven I have not uncovered position, but I have learned to notice it intuiting a knot my rim incisive

One must be more than once

Bright collapse

The moon was out during the day Shedding light

What is missing from this miracle

(The things I really cherish) a health of what absence

How are we more than once?