stands in her transformations,
misleading us. In chains, she sings songs:
sounds spliced at NIH, splintered
into the less authentic.
The sounds confuse experts of instinct:
owl-heads swivel, hoot at the bats careening
off course. Hybrid roses tip their faces
to the grow-light’s cold and dream of the sun.
The sob that hung still-born in your throat
annihilated us more than my volcano of grief,
rising up out of viscera that had seen better days.
Zelig has something to tell the Chimera.
On the Beltway, you rode for miles in your circles
trying to get your story straight. Ever since,
I have suffered. There has been such stitching
and unstitching as you have never seen.