this big sexy regret machine

  hop and skip and don’t needto look at herto know. what she’s thinking.  orange all over and front facing, front. looking but two ofus and one of him. hungry or confused but either way he is thirstyso. we take a drink. hopping and skipping around the pool we. move quick onground. she bounces and i. hop not allowed to go this far. my mother never goes. anywhere so. neither do i. drink. bathe alittle. he can’t watch both of us. she can’t see me now, but she’s with me. my partner we. find ourselves naturally. in yellow season with orange and fox and cold. the wateris cold but feels. nice. on our feathers.  he makes a move at me. i wing out. too close. she jaws and lunges and peck at hischin. he didnot like that. too close he. bites back and she. moves. swift and quick i am watching her inthe water fly up the tree. the game is. over. she’s found. something. and asks to fly away.  he makes ago again and i. wing. he jaws and i scream. why did shego that far? i thi...

  OUR FATHER OUR FATHER OUR FATHER OUR FATHER, WHO LIVES WITH US NOW, RESTS IN HIS SUNDAY BED. HE WILL NOT GO ANYWHERE TODAY, OUR FATHER. HE WILL NOT REST, HE WILL NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE. HE IS MADE OF WOOD, WHERE MY MOTHER IS MADE OF STONE. OUR FATHER, I LOVE HIM MORE, FOR WE WILL RETURN TO THE EARTH QUICKER, QUICKER, QUICKER. THE SALTED GROUND WE STAND UPON IS MARKED BY THE WORDS HE HAS PRAYED INTO THIS EARTH. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND WHEN YOU MEET OUR FATHER. THE WORDS HE WILL WHITTLE YOU WITH WILL NOT LOVE NOR LEARN YOU. YOU WILL BE THE ROOT OUR FATHER GROWS FROM, BUT HE WILL LISTEN TO YOU. THE WORDS OF A STRANGER ARE WELCOME TO OUR FATHER, FOR YOU ARE NOT WOOD NOR STONE BUT A FABRIC FOR HIM TO DEVOUR. TELL HIS LIFE TO HIM IN TWO PARAGRAPHS AND THE GLYPHS OF YOUR BODY WILL BE ETCHED UPON HIM. YET I AM SUFFOCATING, TRAPPED IN HIS BARK. HE HAS OUTGROWN ME.  OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN, HOLLOW BE HIS NAME.  OUR FATHER DOES NOT RESPOND TO ACKNOWLEDGING HIS CHILDREN, RATING KNOW...

  I seek a peace in the world, watching from my time alone, thinking about the words I’m not writing. I sit, uncertain in myself. When was the last time I felt good in this space? I live for the questions I leave myself. In my otherness, the peace I look for is found in the mothers before me, the mothers I do not talk to, the mothers I reject, and the mothers who reject me. I am a body built of the otherness of a woman who cannot be a mother, an art left for another to transcribe. Before my brother was born, my mother would take me to galleries of her choosing, some she had designed, some she found interesting. There were some I understood, some I found boring, some we took down together. These summers were spent removing art with my mother from cold, white-walled rooms, leaving them with less, but leaving the air fuller. The last summer, there were the pencils. I remember this sculpture in perfect lighting, then recovering pencils about the house from lifeless corners. The pen...