by accident

cautious cauldronfuls of mourning
set up like a chemistry set, chests
of unopened drawers where tubes
lay slack like mouths with absent teeth;
a scientist collects (for their own sake)
hidden dawns where no one sees
wallflowers climbing, peeling the sky
with its tendril teeth, as though
removing a band-aid off an
eternal wound.

unasked for

moths whose wings thicken
with boredom
from its ruined velocities,
flutter down her acid
windpipe, to where ruby pains
plummet in pulses, collecting in
a gaping stupor, a crosslegged
numbness that corresponds with
the female month.

foreign policy

the sky is your enemy’s
napkin, stitched together
by your forgiveness
in patches which their
agenda mismatches
but lookers are not seers;
whoever’s looking will
not see: the food is
the hatchet,
your final tendency.