They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Birth Canal | Mary Ellen Ballard

I go to sleep after a late

morning burial the fog lifts

its wet tongue with milk

foam and purple reeds

not entirely opaque

scenes of sibling rivalry

a plastic knife

thrust in the bay

window of an old sandstone

the tide is wearing

your clothes

wearing away

at your breasts now

tangled in turnip greens

we are born

at once selfish

birth is

letting loose

blind children


cedar chip trails