I wore my first lipstick at fourteen—blood-red. Heart-scar.
Breasts still budding. I watched dead wrens
drift on a marsh, minnows gnawing at their meat.

Once, Mother and I fled on foot for days. She returned
alone. I walked the earth solo. My body, shards in a sac—
anorexia, a rattler of bones. A lover-nemesis.

Each time I left with two suitcases: one large and black,
tomb-sized; the other, the color of California pine.
I could never bite into love like a pomegranate—juice staining

my lips, fingers for days, shameless teeth grinding
its seeds to paste. I hid a knife in my bra, a sword in my jeans.
My mouth leaked vengeance—words, holy pus.

One night, I dreamed a hummingbird. 
Her wings, neon green, flitting above a house in ruins.
She hovered there for years. Then vanished.