I’ve scythed myself: which, the reflection,
which, the flesh? Tear a pocket of liver—
sertraline rainsticks, a dark swallow
of ache, bird’s tail arrowing to phone calls
we had. Mama, I’m sick. I’ve got to get
help. There, the fracture, the heart-faced
daughter with folded hands // the boy-
girl born full as a mouth of sky, as a clause;
Already, the tree fork a gathering of roots
and tendons, already the gravity loose
like plum skin. Foals birthed running,
pit the ground in their heat.
