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


I prefer

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.