Childless Woman

The

Rattles its pod, the

Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,

The roads bunched to a knot,

The knot myself,

Myself the rose you acheive—-This body,

This

Ungodly as a child's shriek.

Spiderlike,

I spin mirrors,

Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood—-Taste it, dark red!

And my

My funeral,

And this hill and

Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.