These Orchards of Birth and Bone

Arbors
loosely-bathed
in birth, misplace
their lilting ceilings,
flailing branches open
to the thunder-soaked skies.

Lost readily, ruined mothers wage
careful wars against the catacomb eyes
that blink back at their consciences,
womb wishes buried grave deep.
No one seeks to alleviate
their seasons of grief.

My june companion needs
watery elms
to ease the
pain of
child-

d
e
a
t
h.