Back in the day—
You snapped the heads of dandelions
from their bodies, watched them
swim in a jar of water and gifted
them to your mother.
You were the beautiful thing,
who, before being called to dinner,
dug your hands deep
into the yard’s soft belly,
pulled the writhing worm and too
snapped its head before burying it
into the same ground you disturbed.
And then too, you snapped the chicken
wings apart before being told to say grace first.

What can be said of your own breaking?
Lover reaching into night blooms black
blue; your own neck still against
a lover’s cruel palm, your open mouth
sound caught in the esophagus. Day broke
same as you, a ruby mourning.

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