In the garden of poisons,
I eat and grow thin.
Cherries big as clown
noses. I swallow the pits
and they swell.
Burrs and thistles cling.

Skin turned outside in.
A blackbird drops to the ground,
flies to a leafless branch
and caws out a song
once a tune of his father
now one of his rivals.

What have I done
that a tree should bloom
from my hand’s palm
and seeds that I’ve eaten
should spring into fruit
for children and worms?

And what I have done
to bring the rose to my cheeks
this white coat to my back
and have my nails bitten to the quick
by someone else’s daughter?

And what shall I do with a spooned
tongue, balls of melons
and grafts of skins, duct tape
words from a fringed lip—
laced, laced, always laced?