I became a winter coat

we haven't spoken for days.
there were tears in my soup.
you slept with the pastor's wife.
i discovered the baby inside me.
there was a phone call at 2 am.
we haven't spoken.

in the beginning...

first there was the spider-- she always
knew what to do. she wore the black dress
spiders wear and climbed on like baby's skin.
we all waited, we held hands, held breasts full
of breath. we watched as she spun the world,
weaved the trees on the river's edge-- she
always knew what it took for things to survive.

she died on the seventh day. we buried her
next to the vines that wind and whip around
the legs of creation.

At 17 weeks they can dream

The mundane has begun-- the clipping
of finger nails, the washing and drying
of clothes, the buttering of bread.
All tasks have been assigned and numbers
given out to the children of the gods.

But there was a time we ate and drank
the wine of womb, as we listened to the secret
of the water. And there was a time without
buying or selling or being late
for the train. Back then, there was
only breathing, the soft in and out
of rhythm.