Mothering Beatrice

Despite two mice & a bird in your zoo

my red blood is where your tooth comes through.

Every day’s a struggle between me & you,

Beatrice. My old skin versus your brou-

haha. Isn’t this what I asked

for? My first clue the beer glass

you toppled, what? thirty minutes after

your arrival — vanguard of your daft

hullabaloo. Middle of every night

you search the bed for bare flesh, a site

where you can nurse before I wake & try
to stop you. Eye for an eye.

Flute Song

by H. D.

Little scavenger, away,

touch not the door,

beat not the portal down,

cross not the sill,

silent until

my song, bright and shrill,

breathes out its lay.

Little scavenger avaunt,

tempt me with jeer and taunt,

yet you will wait to-day;

for it were surely ill

to mock and shout and revel;

it were more fit to tell

with flutes and calathes

your mother's praise.