The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

This is what I do when I have to move forward
even when there is no place to go.
My little wild dog and I are out in the wild grass

We think that perhaps God is hiding somewhere
in the numbers, spitting out ever more
digits to Pi, that irrational lullaby

you take your radio 

down to the sea

Sunglasses grimy with dust. Pencil sharpeners from different eras.
A VHS recording of my seventh birthday.

I remember how much we watched the stars 
in our pre-screen silence, spotting sister sigils 

Violet ladies of night dreams stroll around the rooms.

Because your lungs are heavy as deadwood
and your eyelids wax and wane, words caught 
in your teeth like a dark art, a snake plant

Let’s imagine your ashes getting peppered 
with marijuana and smoked all night long

Outside the 
courtroom
we wait for
the public 
defenders