poems Our season How you loved to tell that tale. How I loved to hear it. Freedom It is the risk-taker in you that I fell in love with Wrong but not wrong I thought I was bla bla bla bla bla bla bla. Can’t wait to see you Scraps I pause to think of all the things I could do to regulate my nervous system Your fucking needs you fucking bastard For Molly Some things are worth more than a risky fuck dead rabbit dora found a rabbit near the tip Dora it is not a friendship, not a business transaction, not a love affair, not a baby. women throwing things into fires on any given night whether the moon be bright and fat or a shadow of herself mugwort do not underestimate the space i will claim. bone stories i could tell it so many ways. a head start i breathed with him barely sipping the pale air geese once more with feeling:[bellowing] you do not have to be good the sea-wives «mother doesn’t give a shit.» the dance one day the woman awoke feeling strange. At last we are drunk for the first time in the foothills of cadair idris fresh out of school where for five years they called us lemons and dykes. baba yaga’s hut they come to me for the stupidest things. my house will have no sign you will not find it by name or number. Untitled (Mother) sea, ever changing, ever constant. what do you know about mother?you cannot know mother. You are the tiny person, the cupped hand, and every moon A tease, a glimpse, a late bloom. An idea of what you might become.