My grandmother clasped cousin Stella’s hand, divining the heart

of things: the only house she’d buy would burn in the spring,

          daughters’ dresses floating through windows. (It’s not something

to say in polite company.) Peculiar sight twining in our bloodline (yet our bodies

          trouble to make moon-eyed children), I’ve buried my mother’s hallelujahs

& salt-throwing grandmother’s prophecies (she said I was in love,

          she was wrong) in the sea’s dark oil. Still, I touched José’s arm,

& saw his mother slap him for pissing on the floor & he hated me for it.

          The third eye’s gate swings open, letting visions in and out as horses.

I asked my grandmother, who baked doughy babka & lifted her hands’

          glowing bones to make the sign of the cross, who do you watch?

Now, she’s gone & I’m lonely, knowing all bright things pass away. On

          the other side, women laboring in the saint-fields grow younger, she

told me, touching chin whiskers. Here, I carry others’ lives, incessant

          bird-noise suffering. I split myself over & over, then sew

these little deaths inside my pelvis. I cry to be carried. Because we all

         long for something to quiet us down. Tell me, the living & dead say,

you’ll see me even when my ashes blow away. Out of my skull, evening primrose

          will flower. Out of the wildest dark.