Wire-bound
irises peeling
pollen. Grackles
between plots,
restive and dark.

Our sister’s birth
and death revealed
abruptly at her grave:
old grief satiated
with fresh horror.

Baby brother weeps
in dread. I bite until
I bleed, contemplate
a decimation
nine years slated.

Ardent prayers on grill
selection, loaded
semi-automatics beside the bed—
the root of superstition
is despair.