This is girlhood: dreams of killing,
hoping to exhume my own body.
On the best nights, I plant seeds
along the slaughterhouse floor
while blood spill dries like ink.
Pig-like shapes swing heavy
from the ceiling; lulling heads
make clouds. Legs turn
to evergreens. Finally flaccid
cocks roll up cold bare thighs
like gentle snow against a mountainside.
A forest comes from this, new growth
springs from the dirt.
My sky opens, blue and light.