Danielle Pafunda

I don't have to explain myself until, again, I do

This isn’t a mother’s book. What once
was the commune in my back degrades
and begins / Remember the time I gave.

I gave birth to a baby with pepper wings
a persistent beat singeing first the gates
and then the gloves and then my breast

as the image goes. The belief that
everyday must include but some days
are extraordinary in their small study /

her back /
to you. Cold noise delivery. / Remember
okay thanks. Okay thank the baby

who spurred back several down / to
understand / she did this to

strong hold of me longer than the umbilical chord.

---

Her, not a drone, but small and ready enough to feed, I watch on a stage in greyscale to bloom

Her gets filled with joy as she chewed
thru the waxy cap on her cell. / Nun,
nectar sister stupefied then loosed

on a field of sting and feed. Her,
simple sign in any garret / wicking
out the window, down smoking
unfiltered from the view or else

a thickness like shower curtain
touch you before her. Her name

changed.
Her name taking on a multidimensional
haunt. / When dream is all about her

it wets the mattress, it weeps the pillow
it dawns dew soaked then spit stormed.

It’s a sort of wave, milk soured in a /
seemingly forgotten / milk / this

belief.



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Danielle Pafunda is author of six books, most recently The Dead Girls Speak in Unison and Natural History Rape Museum (Bloof Books). She teaches at the University of Wyoming.