Breech Birth

Moving out of knowing well,
I moved death into me.

Fed it my home, my poems, my name,
my titles, my children’s security.

I clawed its mouth, crawled down its throat,
snatched up the swallowed tree.

Too far gone, the house spun off—
yellow, light rooms empty.

Death pulled me out of myself by my legs.
Smoothed my hair. Smelled me.

2013