You bend to bend the milkweed stem; your finger slips off of it like a droplet of blood drips off of God's lips. Fall in the grass and stare at your bygone prudery. Smack it in the face and cry. Cry hard. Milk spread all over the grass, remove your dress, and let the twilight zephyr mark the ruddied goose flesh of your breasts. Let the dirt brand each slender finger, and the silver trails of passed airplanes drip, imprint your closed eyelids. Let worms and maggots living beneath the soil tear your blood-sewn bone. Translucence. Grass, grass - in your ears, throat, thighs, toes, grass. Let the things your mother told you in secret pass away, die. Little corpses under your feet. Milk in the grass.
