laurapalmer

With the Sting There is nothing to say but something is weighing on my mind like plutonium, heavy metal named for the planet, once upon a time. Its radiation is toxic and cancer in the bones may occur. So much mineral matter means nothing to the poison that lurks in the heft of secrets. Density becomes adjectival. Bones become chalky and brittle and soft like meal for fertilizer. Flowers and tomatoes and food for dogs. There is nothing to say but something is growing in my body like a malady. It loiters behind my ribs and clavicles, waiting for the chance to spread into my heart, into my organs, slow and low. It is revealed in the timbre of

The Mourning Dove She cries out on the wasted air a lamentation. The most hunted bird in North America, she lays but two eggs, only two. If the clutch should grow, it is another female’s eggs invading her nest. Adorned with gray feathers to blend with the fog she weaves her poorly crafted nest with her man standing on her back. She takes flight and her wings whistle. She soars at 55 miles per hour then falls to avoid the forest raptor, a hawk who wants her meat. Elliptical wings are curious things.