The dying,

backlit at my fingers, resurrect in my dreams— a swarm / of mothers, their mouths howling, empty bowls. Empty bowels / rub the children down to bone. Barren wombs gather / tumbleweeds and grief. Grief gathers, but no gatherings.

So many of them / scattered by the storm, / cloudy galaxies / of azure and crimson / hues. They trusted / the deceiving lull / of the current, / and it killed them.

and turn flesh / showgirls into / fresh snowgirls. / I’m curious / about what / slips between / the cracks,