The body, said Alice,
       

opening her shirt to show
her ruined breast, is ambivalent
with its laws. That's why we have two
of nearly everything. Before her,
a burning field, smoke building
puffy-headed fathers in the sky.
The braided cicatrix, her rattlesnake
tattoo ruddy in the light.

Will you stay awhile, I asked,
and rummaged for the wine,
but when I turned my back
she left again. The fathers nodded
on their sleepy stems. Across
the char her prints were off-
set dotted lines they couldn't bring
themselves to cut along.

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Copyright © 2018 Beth Spencer All rights reserved
from The Cloud Museum
Sixteen Rivers Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission