I do not want to tell the truth.
I do not want to tell anyone that at this moment
I wish my measure of days were at an end.
I do not want to tell anyone
about the puppies I had to drown
when their mother had no milk and I had no money.
The truth is a wound
a devouring and huge flower opening at night
a cave in the soul into which everyone
descends, chained to each other.
The truth is sticking pins into someone
by speaking her anguish.
I hurry over frosted grass before it happens
and I reach my lair. I go down on all fours;
my kits are waiting for me and they latch on to my teats.
I am panting with fear and sorrow.
It is the truth that I drank this morning;
I thought it was clear and safe water, from a spring.
but shortly afterward I began howling out litanies
of absence, loss, hatred of the ragged broken woman
I have become
I would step outside myself and hold myself
under water if I could.
I would reopen veins I opened long ago
but I know I would run toward the house shouting help me
to be that creature of the grass
who survives on moonlight
bone-thin, singing her heart out
letting everything that needs her drink her dry.