All those girls before
were soluble girls.
1 rinse – cleansed
and drained away.

The ones that cling and knot
are bound in ribbons. Their names,
written in red ink, dangle
on brilliant streams of tafetta.
I bury them
beneath the ivy

in the backyard. On nights
when the moon hangs heavy, pregnant
with her own luminosity, I go out
among those wildish vines. Press
my ear to fresh turned earth and listen
as twisting roots engage
the intricate mesh of their memory

All those girls before
were soluble girls
and fodder

for brambles.


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