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         A fire ritual
         burns hot little graves
         for my electrons.
         Sear those electrons
         I don’t care, my womb
         is wordless anyway.
         Once I picked out names,
         girth, necks, the color
         of their irises.
         Last of the line, last
         of the line, I’ll wear
         my dust like petals.


Don’t Make Me Grow


         A mustardseed of okayness. We’re here
         to know our own goodness. I have barely
         cried at all. I spent so much time away
         from me that when I finally feel me
         I might kill me. I guess you sit
         with you and see you do not kill you.
         Then you live. No nothing
         will give me that okayness.
         I want bodies packed
         around my body. A layer
         is missing. The air is so
         dangerous. Blink twice
         you’re off the path.


Decompositional Method

         You make graveyards in excess and memorials
         for bent stems
         but I will know you post-bones:
         no chill, no torturer, no hell, no
         cold morning after sweaty dream,
         only one dream
         and one absolute: sky pukes light.
         how the cars looked like toys in Massachusetts
         on the hill you and Joshua
         you felt you floated?
         You were correct
         so out of your mud bed
         under the corncobs
         my dream dreamt your bed to begin with
         I promise
         it’s good
         the end.

Melissa Broder
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