by Stephanie Bryant Anderson
My mood is a plump round hip weaving in
and out of weeping childbirth.
Wine collects the skulls of my thoughts
pooling them like wet flour into a bowl
made from the bones of my soft child.
In my chest Magnolias tangle with dark birds
that rake and shudder my bone-cage. Cash
does not say "daddy". His mouth
will never know the shape. His small jaw
has a piece of tooth that does not root.
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