Childless Woman

The womb

Rattles its pod, the moon

Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,

The roads bunched to a knot,

The knot myself,

Myself the rose you acheive—-

This body,

This ivory

Ungodly as a child's shriek.

Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,

Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood—-

Taste it, dark red!

And my forest

My funeral,

And this hill and this

Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.