Because you can’t stop thinking of orchards
you return to the planet where you first
felt your bones, two hundred cyan ink
cartridges, test-printing arrows down
another woman’s spine. here you cut your
palm a window & stare at the woods long
enough to forget what is above: mountain
sky dawning like a laughing girl with a
mouth full of blood. this morning the
table cloth on the clothesline grew into the
dress you hid your branches & cloves. you
realize time is only judged by distance an
oriole builds her nest then flies after her
bones. by evening you forget your father’s
instructions so you are making yourself
again: feet: two shoebox-buried birds. chest:
three wings of cicada-stained glass. fingers:
ten waves of radio static. breathless, you
spill your name like a thousand postcards
into a lake. breathless, you wash the apple &
wait for her name to bob.