playing me on this empty house morning / all the windows blinds wide open / not one tree not blooming / and the light this time of year / the quality of which the quality of which / as if making it through the day isn’t enough / 
 

In the backyard, / like burying cacti into the earth, / she buried her letters / next to earthworm cocoons.

Why did Hattie May Parris venture / here from the Fundy Bay—doused / in Micmac blood

I am trying / to forget the city back home, the boy back home, how / I said goodbye through my dirty fingernails. Here, / no one is watching.