In a dream my nipples have been cut / open along the seams of my areola. A perfect dark circle, // the cavern of my breast. There, against the rims / clings a white paste, dried-up milk. // Elation. I have it in me after all.
Inside my hip a mother bird / is still constructing her nest— // beak against pelvic bone, scraping / as she arranges twig upon twig, little // splinters in the hollow where / once my own child ripened.
In a backyard suburb east of the Willamette river / my grandma sat my cousins & me around a well / waxed wooden table, had us pronounce each other’s / middle names until we could do so without stumbling.
An idea so fleeting it’s mere outline, dim constellation. / I think of abducting you— // a consideration as gentle and banal as what fruit to buy / for the week. It’s really only the word that compels, // abduct, abducere, to lead away as if by the hand, lovingly.