Weed Child

She

is blood ribbons

and lace.

A sticky

weed child

yanking at my skirt.

Night after night

she

comes

into my room,

plum-faced,

barking anxiety

in spoons.

The silent womb,

I occupied,

violated

in flannel

and paper.

The decay of spring

one

robin

at a time.

She

hangs up the phone

on her way to

eat. 

A hostile

oeuvre

never to be replicated

in ferocity of word

or deed.

The backseat of Texas

burning

my thighs

red.

She

places her head

upon my shoulder

and sucks at my breast,

one gulp

at a time,

until all that is left

is my hanging skin.