You wear your mother’s
red crinoline and nothing else.
You watched a cardinal with a broken
wing drown in the birdbath- you were
ten years old.
Like holding your hand over fire,
this is practice.
Your husband broke the door down
and found your children floating in the bathtub.
I left you on the highway. This time it wasn’t hard.
You told me that there’s not much to love about a seed.
Your crinoline flapped in the exhaust.
Your hair obscured your face.
Then you’re over the bridge,
blooming in the river.