I tell the oracles that no one has touched
me, that plenty have looked, drunk their fill
on my (   ). Their predictions break down every
(   ) in my dreams. The men circle around at
night like a choker of wet jewels, their mouths
dark engines spitting (   ). They are the opposite
of miracle. They sing the names of the dead,
but (   ) isn’t one of them. They make small
(   ) of my grief. I am a swarm but all they see
is the honey. My loneliness rises the grey
hull of a (   ) groaning to shore. This is
the time for vigilance, the oracles tell me,
time to lock your (   ) away. It’s hard to be
the darling when you were once a girl from
(   ) and nobody will let you forget it.