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.