Notes Towards an Autobiography
1.
Last night, the moon was a limping fox
whining at my door and trampling my offerings:
blue bowls of newspapers, burnt pencils and curdled milk.
I fear the purple lips of my father after wine.
I miss the breath of my horse, how he would tear at my blonde hair.
I love the unhemmed edges, the broken tooth, the self wallowing
in its own pink jail cell.
2.
In my dreams, I ride my mother’s cow over a cliff and learn to fly.
Most of the time, I am climbing the walls of my tree house.
I fear the wasps drown my voice.
My childhood was a boat unbuilt each night
above a marsh of beer and old blood.
I learned to read by the light of the villagers’ torches,
ignoring the pitchfork tines as they tickled my ribs, my spine.