Three new poems

POMEGRANATE, DAUGHTER

Little tadpole, if that, even -- little blood seed,
little month, little pomegranate, daughter.
I write to put you
back into the world. I scooped a hole
in myself -- a handful, less, a dimple
that might cover a quick-sprout seed. And now,
like the empty pitcher, grieve.

DUCTUS

How should grief be addressed
if not to the one
not taking delivery, the one who does not
look up from her coffee, the one who will not
come to the door. There are letters layered
in the horsehair of old walls, letters under
the soft place in the floor. There is a hole
in the heart
that should close early.
Address this letter
there.

A FUNERAL WITH PLUMES AND LIGHTS

To be a woman is to be a gate of blood.
So you left in much attended procession.
To weep is forbidden, though you entered
in something like tears.