|The man who held me down slit my ulna—my tongue didn’t tell—& sucked out
the marrow. He devoured
me in stones, in howling.
taken (cauterized), even
if your body is still here? A girl taken from a park
broken femurs in a dumpster. Her poltergeist dangling
The man who held me down is also
the windows, pulling shades. Showing his son a moon so bright it can hide nothing. My tongue
still laced in his belt. Its last words, O light, O rope.
|Another kind of snatching— my grandmother’s poodle
stolen in 1922. Wet fur
still stuck on pilled
stockings she knotted & threw into the fireplace.
keeping her hands behind her back: tied.
you’re left with his afterimage. Buried
the dog’s shadow on the wall,
unzipping her dress, an un-
|I’m the mother
brought to her knees (these children siphoned my breath), trying to right my balance, clavicle heaving, a clothesline
in wind. I touch
the gritty ring (the body can be taken. The body can be found) they left
in the tub.
They play (faces red in leaves)
happily beyond my shadow, not knowing who watches
I’ll never know
with me, as if the parting
—in the hollow where I don’t speak, I ask to take their place. Someone must be given.