She sleeps alone

in the burrow beneath a tangle

of roots. A septum divides her uterus. 

At the seventh month she stepped

on a grave and our girl was born

club-footed. When I fall

asleep her little fingers creep up

and undo my necktie. Trust

is an ugly deity. She cannot

finish a cigarette without

eating it. Brother, we clean

our dead. It’s a good

we can’t imagine deserving.