Yellow goddess
at the yolk of it, once,
yanked away from the moon.

She leaps and lactates
like an antelope, a jackrabbit,
jointed at her skull. Looks at

me with eyes of gold
and muck. Buried treasure,
perhaps, my mother’s pleasure

for eating compasses at
breakfast. Cult of domesticity
as we pull hyacinths from the

ground. We sip on beer and
laugh on His deathbed. God,
forgive us, we didn’t go to church

today. We laid on the steps
of our home. Played poker and
gambled away our secret names.

Trifles, truly. You know the
things men and women call
each other. That’s why we make

ourselves hares and leopards.
Once a year we roam the earth
like animals. This Sunday we brought

the wilderness to our hearth.