The mouth of the mother is the mouth of a wolf. We do not know what is wrong with her, her siblings said, your mother. She has always been that way, as though that way was specific, identifiable, understood among all creatures. She has always been full of fear, petulance, and violence, often traveling from pasture to pasture at night, lamenting her state of being with dolorous howls, her throat full of rasping teeth and starlings. She is a great reaver and spewer of blood, they said, but also flees when met with the slightest resistance, and then hunches into a shivering lump to play martyr. She birthed and devoured a hundred babies before she had you. There was nothing we could do to stop her, either from the birthing or the devouring. Why she did not eat you we do not know, but agree the living was worse for you, that is, until you escaped. We did not think it possible. She carried you around by the scruff of your neck, slung you against rocks, pinned you under her forepaws and bathed you in her moldered breath until you screamed. She taught you nothing, neither to hunt nor to flee, and left you shivering upon the cold rock, scoured by winter sun and blasting winds. She was not a wolf. Not even close. She sent you to vacation Bible school. There you learned questionable crafts and the gentle terror of Jesus. We wanted to intervene, but ancient codes prevented it. When you bled, we looked away. When you ran into the sky, we cheered for you. She raged in your absence, slaughtering rabbits in the garden and digging endless tunnels into the earth. Now you have returned. Her mind is a ruin. She is a small child trapped on a merry-go-round. It would be a kindness to sing to her.

My mother’s favorite story, a dull one, of course— 
            is that she did not scream during my birth, 
instead dug her nails into her sister’s wrist, severing
            a vein, and killing her—I’m only joking. 
She lived. I did say this was her favorite story after all.

                          :::

               They say if the mother is silent
               during birth, then the child will grow
               up without the ability to smell or decipher 
               maps, but will indeed grow up.

               They say if the baby is born silent, 
               then it’s probably a faggot, or dead, 
               or will be eventually.

                          :::

He was a stupid child. Ate dirt they said. Ate glass 
and people’s wallets. Kept a farm of cigarette butts 
in his cheeks. Smelled like a highway,

but sounded like a boy.
Stood on the overpass and swore 
he could hear her screaming. 

1

I tore from a limb fruit that had lost its green.
My hands were warmed by the heat of an apple
Fire red and humming.
I bit sweet power to the core.
How can I say what it was like?
The taste! The taste undid my eyes
And led me far from the gardens planted for a child
To wildernesses deeper than any master’s call.

2

Now these cool hands guide what they once caressed;
Lips forget what they have kissed.
My eyes now pool their light
Better the summit to see.

3

I would do it all over again:
Be the harbor and set the sail,
Loose the breeze and harness the gale,
Cherish the harvest of what I have been.
Better the summit to scale.
Better the summit to be.