The sycamore mark on her inner thigh is a continent
about to divide itself into the angel
that sat in the votive light
of a fourteen year-old's cigarette, and the angel
that was never there…
I'm nurse, nurturer, old
knife-girl drawing the moon like iron through the far skylight. The vents sliding
temperate breaths through metal.
I love an animal that'll open
like a girl—
I shoved naked photographs of me
into the sewer
after the breakup, to prevent
them from appearing
near adds for cello lessons
pinned in our grocery store.