didn’t you rip             down       the front-porch-lavender?

the roots           could not             resist         your blunted claws.      

you left       the soil all ravaged and ruptured       drenched with

sweat and your                vaguely-oriental                   musk

like the crows          gorging in           the undivided fields

at the far-end of summer          and            severed          cornstalks

everywhere.     

didn’t you stand     on the threshold           before the vicar

your face smeared            with powder and dad’s cologne

sheepish           like a        milkless        cow?

and when motherhood     began       didn’t you rise    thigh-deep

in soiled water,         with seams split            unearthed,

stitches       undone,         loose at your knees,        cracked-lipped      

and laughing      amazement   at the      animal      you had become?