softly singing
I arrange my spices
A to Z—
the idea of order
on a kitchen shelf
coyotes
outside my dark window
the desire
to join them
running on all fours
sun and wind
enter my slow bones
replacing
the marrow of loneliness
with emerald moss
a girl-child
waits in the woods
within me
for jack-in-the-pulpit
to speak his first word
the story
of my life as a changeling—
this poem
a silk purse stitched
from a sow’s left ear
