I dreamed my mother collapsed inside of me
and nothing else was true.
I was still and I cupped my heart’s stream
into my heart’s mouth and
I could do nothing.
This is to say I was a child.
Casting nets of silver so you feel
the feeling of
this is my job: the child is living
and can be named for a dog.
A dog would be pure black emotion.
A terrycloth terror we’ll rub on our bodies
and hold onto for fear of
she was a child. She was a child.
And in her child she felt her mother’s sadness.
I want to her to feel it
for how can I touch her, the beatitude, the velvet veto.
What hasn’t happened yet.
What it feels like to hold onto the stairs for help.
That’s every story—medea plumming candle.
finking across the need to know.
As I stand in front of the “victim.”
She’s garrulous as we practice on the child
on her dovetail joints that despite everything
thrill and thrill and thrill.