I Bride, I Mother, I Pierce Through the Casket

In the underbelly I’ve rot for forest
I’ve rocks for waste—& when I venture
past the terracotta pots for homes squatting

on their little plots their aches, past brick
& schools where my living fish
are learning to sing the blanks, our erasure

from the history books—where neighborhoods fade
at the desert’s edge I stumble into the dumping
ground, the burial yard of our domestic

detritus, our cultural junk:
love-or-violence-stained mattresses
disemboweled & springs

like broken limbs stabbing through, the hulls
of busted washing scrubbing
fucking machines & every

carcass of steel, condoms seeping
their waxy milk into the dirt, mountains bodied
of babydolls with missing eyes & empty

casings of bullet shells &
plastic bags like pregnant bellies, innards
the buzzards have pulled clean—