Already, (not) a steady hand on the hull of a phrenology skull
A brain
Built malformed in continuity, but with a pronounced ridge

of reverence.

Veneration laid –not— to that which didn’t kill us
But to the parts of us pinched
away.

I heard if you leave the wild garlic where it grows, that thing you want
will come right for you.
Couldn’t miss it if you tried. Just stay planted.

But my aunt paid us–penny a pop—to pull the tiny bulbs from the walkways
Who knows what they want when they’re nine or thirty-nine?

I’m not good at being still.