a ring of cod blood stains around
the inside of your mother’s sieve.
long on the top, short on the sides—
a lock of black hair in a cardboard box.
you take a skirt from the back of the closet.
the photo of your parents
laughing in a chinese restaurant.
rhapsody, still ocean under rain—
you watch a white egret stepping
from the passengers seat between towns.
dead dog and menstrual blood
between your fingers. you carry yourself
like an injury now. black eyes black lake
black closet behind black door.
the water they run upstairs.
your sister puts whiskey in the beans
to make them sweet. you run outside—
crowning, coming; holding in
your outstretched sieve,
the star you put in your own eye.