how do we cope with       seven years of bad luck,
sweating summer away, treating youth
like bittersweet apricot, unripe/or rotting,
when winter brings
our future’s eroded footprints

dear God, this is a hymn; I sing it with my throat still fresh. dear God, this is a prayer; I recite it
with my head bowed and the arrow nocked. irony coalesces in the strangest

i. dremel uvula
we are girls. to hope is to expect. to revert back
to sticky hands, to beg between tantrum sobs
for lullabies. we are girls, we polish
our sentiments (with sandpaper tongues)
down to shining minimums