nothing I said made sense to anyone. I would try each truth three ways:
fog in the red mountain; my gateways accumulate; my name is ant.
I was daughter of the daughter of the woman who stole
every doorknob she could touch, glued them to her bed—the new bewilder, the postern moon.
I would sew glass moths to my feet as she named them:
a sea-locked church; a mining town; a room of long candles.
Is this what life becomes? Cross-legged and quieted in the blood winter,
hearing my own stories told back to me.