The Wind Chime Is Made of Pig Bones Drilled Through and Monofilament

The alphabet needs additional letters for terror

No one loves to whistle more than this iced wind

Some midnights in a full moon the light on the
        ice and snow can blind me

Even my cotton clothes squeak very loud
        while I sleep

I have never been welcome here on Earth

The monstrous radish-like hatreds and fears
        of humans

Sometimes at night I hear them again

A telephone ringing   News of  tomorrow’s

Coal cars slamming together at midnight

Sometimes a telephone ringing is a thread of
blue electricity down the spine

Miller’s voice telling me of Frank’s handgun

Not my brother’s voice   Not the sound of a
        shotgun shell

The voice of a nurse describing the hammer
        breaking each window of my daughter’s