The rumors are true:
under a bear’s skull.
from my breasts,
lead me
swaddled in my arms.
teeth ripping out
me, these women
Because I can’t pray,
house. Gather
Oil the village.
midnight out.
live in auspices,
along the lattice-
the start of dying.
down. We drown
water. Take heart
We unwind intestines,
desire, fingers clotting
I can’t work. Or pray
the sunken womb,
How my children
my heart into a dead
mass poured into a well.
a door is opening:
her crook at my lip,
blood, asking if
I buried myself
Yet, as milk pours
three widows
to the child
Haunted by cobweb
the rib that created
help me bone shop.
they say, Jar your dark
hanks of trees.
We’ll broom
These necessary things
a starling skittering
of-far-light walls,
We bring the bird
her struggle under
beat for seed.
un-carousel bird
blood for a sign why
in search of aviary,
of umbilical blood rusting.
stuffed and stitched
bear’s belly, the furred
At the end of my life,
There, a shepherd bends
strikes and draws
I’ve emptied enough.
Shannon Estlund, Provocation (oil and enamel on panel)