There are bruised limbs I wake up
and don't remember how
they were born or marked.
These are things to be
remembered, aren't they? I can
grasp a grain of sand
between my teeth without gasping
or faltering forward I can
step into the shadows my body
calls from the quiet of green leaves.
I peel the white skin from a birch
and crush the poison berries
red against the paper
until my fingers bleed with juice.
This is the way we were taught.
I am keeping the cupboards open tonight
to let the spirits out, just like grandma
used to do with the floors,
and the hollow cavern of her chest.
There is salt on the threshold
and all the beds have been freshly made.
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