My uterus is crowded with crab.
They clack and pinch. I bleed.
They scuttle down unused corridors and escape.
One is a small hard presence behind my clavicle.
This summer the doctors will come again
and again with their torches.
And I who have loved so much the more
will study the lesson of less.
The shaved head.
The open hand.
The loud silence of twilight.
Small Poems de Terre 