zafusy

The mother allows us
home to hers.

Shows like sweet shingles,
the roof caved
above the kitchen.

The lawn never grassed & salted hill beyond.

Shoes in the bedroom and the milk-cow
painting hung above the oven.

Says, if I light matches it smells like
almost dinner, at least
like something roasting.

And this little cow
moos for me, see?

Anne Heide

The mother allows us
home to hers.

Shows like sweet shingles,
the roof caved
above the kitchen.

The lawn never grassed & salted hill beyond.

Shoes in the bedroom and the milk-cow
painting hung above the oven.

Says, if I light matches it smells like
almost dinner, at least
like something roasting.

And this little cow
moos for me, see?

Anne Heide

Home with his catch the up-right but-cher stomps
O see what I’ve got you to the mo-ther. A calf is
split he says by our al-pha-bet so tender it won’t let
him move around. O be-lieve he says when I rope
him how ea-sy see he does-n’t move a-round your
kitchen.

Anne Heide

In kitchen-time. With an of-course tempo.

: Love me some Holly-sap to snare chickadee-dee-dee.

: No more and no more dinner. See my house is flailing around me? No
more winged supper

: With hair, cement: use mine to bind this house. Now let me capture
it. Sugar me up.

: With that sap to remove all-skin? I’d rather.

: …

: Good dry rivers have the clay-foot stomping we need we need for house.

: Me the mother lain too long in this spot and white them in every
doorjamb. Feed on my peel, slip slip.

: …

: I am hungry in the daylight. Trap them, and feed me.

: A phosphor-glare. Where I am famous. Bird-stain famous.

Anne Heide

In this house
on the hill-stack.

Baked meat
abounds what

smell

how we devour
grass by the
bucket

full.

Then led down
the hill-side

by the red-armed
mother,

us pith and her
marrow full.

For Ruse and for Rust
we’ll all be burnt, slightly.

Anne Heide