There are more of us. We came out of a time when birth was happy.

Green beetles tick against the lighted windows. The crickets stay. I’m irritable on the phone, feel I’m supposed to entertain you, but I’ve had a stupid day and my only thought is full of complaint. You’re retired, and the delay on the long-distance line causes us to interrupt each other and to say with a harsh edge, “I can’t hear you; I’m sorry.”

 Of course that's what pumpkins do,
they grow
as everything in a garden does

My neighbor who tends the rhododendrons
across the street-mulching, fixing soil acidity,
watering by hose for a long hour each evening—

I know I scared you last night by shaking,
the only time you were forced to share
a dream that seemed so bad upon waking.

i have gathered my losses
into a spray of pain;
my parents, my brother,
my husband, my innocence
all clustered together
durable as daisies.

it lay in my palm soft and trembled
as a new bird and i thought about
authority and how it always insisted

today i mourn my coat.
my old potato.
my yellow mother.
my horse with buttons.
my rind.
today she split her skin
like a snake,
refusing to excuse my back
for being big
for being old
for reaching toward other
cuffs and sleeves.

in the latter days
you will come to a place
called memphis.

When Dionysus and Apollo met,
the gods were angry (the goddesses were sleeping)
that two such equals and such opposites