I thought I glimpsed in the bush a black eyed child but it was a bomb. I tried to kiss her before she detonated but I was her gun. Her teeth broke —chandelier droplets fell to the soil between us, yellow pearls detonating under my touch. I ached to save us both, so I gauzed her mouth under the applause of rain but the gauze was blood. I wrapped blood in blood. Child, I whispered, they’ve taken the light… I was a mother once...There are bees in the milk...I could not pick a way to say all I’d seen: Our willows stuffed with barbed wire, gunpowder dressed as wheat in sunlight, endless gallons of neon waste masqueraded as ocean and the women who bathed there daily till their wombs bloomed a wrong glow. They’ve taken the candlelight Jesus read by, buried a blade in the wax. I was a mother once, I knew how to get a swelling howl to drink. But now there are bees in the milk. I drank because I believed the cow. I drank until my lips were riddled with needles. Even love has a hidden knife.