---

Progesterone in Oil

This one must go into muscle.
Sometimes it brings forth blood
without warning. Propped

to one side, I press my eyes tight
as he draws viscous liquid
from a tiny vial, hands

reluctant yet steady. Afterwards,
I switch from ice to heat. Feel
the oil spread like an inner

burning. Count a heartbeat
faint as breath in my back.

---

---

Saturdays

Sometimes we made pickles. Packed them tight,
poured brine, hot and salty—the kitchen soft with steam.

We cut each new batch by hand, knife sliced toward
the body, a clean half-cautious swipe. My husband

was quicker and crueler in all his calculations—
the edge of that blade like syllables severing soul-flesh leaving

tiny tugs of unseen grief. Ghosts are visible
on very rare occasions; the first time he waved the weapon

my direction, we were slicing pickles. He was careful
to keep the handle steady—quarter the fruit with its seeds.

---

---

The Chickens

In the yard, the chickens peck mindlessly at broken shells
thrown out the back door
forgetting that these once held their own
unfertilized seed.

I watch them nibble at the calcite
and think about my womb—how hollow it feels—as a hen
rejects her tiniest offspring.

If God is Mother gathering her chicks beneath her wings,
why does the hen deny this little one refuge?

Everything in creation is soft and violent:

this morning, after sunrise, harvested eggs dashed to pieces
against my kitchen countertop
because my children are hungry.

With pangs I remember that I too must eat.

---

---

Divorce

My husband had honey-colored eyes and honey-colored hair
and he broke his teeth into the flesh of a strawberry
as though it were something to jump rope with, never a bleed
of juice left on his lips.

His shoulders were shrined in cotton year-round,
taut to the bone with summer rituals of baling hay, and in winter
the rigor of shovels or pulling our children in sleds.

He could bounce a smile off an egg freshly dropped
from our chickens in the barn behind the house where he spent hours
adapting the rhythm of a pitchfork to his tenor—

its strong, sonorous vibrato rising over the grunts of his horses,
all of which he nuzzled daily, kissed, and called by name,

commanding them to lift their legs, inspecting their hooves,
digging mud and rock out of their shoes; and they did with ease,
because they knew he loved them.

He would, with equal care, tighten the lids on every jar of jam
we canned together with berries we had picked together,
cleaned, then cooked. And after a long day of barn work and jars
cooling on towels in the kitchen, he’d wash the sweat off of his body
in the shower, careful to turn on the overhead fan to keep
the bathroom from filling with steam.

That night, I would lie next to him in bed and, with my eyes,
rove the stubble on his jaw, under his chin, down the steeple
of his neck, answer the shallow of his breath with my questions.

---

---

On Needing Someone to Be a Little Like God

My son falls into the arms
of an overstuffed chair
and imitates his father
watching TV,
remote in hand, seduced
until he hears
the knob turn
on the trailer’s backdoor
and lurches forward,
out of the chair,
bounding toward
the groan and clack
of hinges and feet,
trembling with facts
learned from cartoons
and fingers flavored
with crackers and cheese,
charging into
his father’s open arms,
half a reflection of me
standing in the kitchen
with paring knife in hand,
seduced—
needing someone to be
a little like God
feeding, clothing, listening
as we try to understand
his absence from our day.

---

---

What’s Left

Imagine I am petting the soft head of a white peony,
full bloom, first cutting—holding it

in the hollowed-out crook of my arm, like an unbroken
egg, afraid of its yolk—the small chance

that it might leak inside the membrane,
and as soon as I open the shell, its once whole soul

will spill out onto the floor. And I,
in my hurried foolishness, quickly cleaning the mess,

rinsing it into a garbage disposal
until its last string of yellow goo is sucked

through the drain’s black rubber teeth,
as I stand over it in horror, shell fragments littering

the countertop like torn petals, all that is left of you—
a sick reminder of me—

while the room grows wild with arms waiting to touch you,
and I want them to touch you,

take you far away from my negligence. It happens
so fast: the hospital gown, the heaving, all your shattered

pieces scattered in my lap, the bed begetting ghosts.
My hands screaming for what’s left.

---

---

The Usual Arteries, Version 5

why count noise
its pillow small and nothing drawn open

curls
between the fabric on sweet mornings

remember the look of God



                     how unrelenting our flushing
                                        scattered-in boys
the quiet break of wonder


and I suppose I thought we were the night
             wanting to live against the scream


of rules we spun towards space

____________________
Author’s Note:

The Usual Arteries is a small, experimental folding object which contains poetry interacting with collaged images. This found poem was built by Erin Dorney with words touching the right hand margins on the right side pages of a withdrawn library copy of Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews, copyright 1979.

Published by Laura Rowley of Illuminated Press with design and production assistance from interns Jay Barrett and Scout Frost. Inkjet printed pages with letterpress & screen printed slipcase on paper from French Paper Company.

---

---

The Usual Arteries, Version 4

the washings out so warm
and I, looking ever to her, suspended
spun so very well

people were shocked into the marble of same,
to the meal of display

long like our sweet coming

                          a train and the whistle

and meadows enough to put tomorrow
between arms already shining



Did I stay always eyes on her eyes?
                    The smile back unfastened?

red welts bite my heart
    like years we weren’t allowed to keep

____________________
Author’s Note:

The Usual Arteries is a small, experimental folding object which contains poetry interacting with collaged images. This found poem was built by Erin Dorney with words touching the right hand margins on the right side pages of a withdrawn library copy of Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews, copyright 1979.

Published by Laura Rowley of Illuminated Press with design and production assistance from interns Jay Barrett and Scout Frost. Inkjet printed pages with letterpress & screen printed slipcase on paper from French Paper Company.

---

---

The Usual Arteries, Version 3

I was born in her lap,
snapped something twice

like long breath years after
                              I’m gold—



a dedicated finger



vase our sleepy mouth
clean as the day opposite each smile

this game
the leaves
our dirty years


                                      rules on bare skin

____________________
Author’s Note:

The Usual Arteries is a small, experimental folding object which contains poetry interacting with collaged images. This found poem was built by Erin Dorney with words touching the right hand margins on the right side pages of a withdrawn library copy of Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews, copyright 1979.

Published by Laura Rowley of Illuminated Press with design and production assistance from interns Jay Barrett and Scout Frost. Inkjet printed pages with letterpress & screen printed slipcase on paper from French Paper Company.

---

---

The Usual Arteries, Version 2

I was body and bed
my waist the wall for reason in the sandbox

and I suppose I thought we were the night
wanting to live against the scream

of rules we spun
toward space

____________________
Author’s Note:

The Usual Arteries is a small, experimental folding object which contains poetry interacting with collaged images. This found poem was built by Erin Dorney with words touching the right hand margins on the right side pages of a withdrawn library copy of Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews, copyright 1979.

Published by Laura Rowley of Illuminated Press with design and production assistance from interns Jay Barrett and Scout Frost. Inkjet printed pages with letterpress & screen printed slipcase on paper from French Paper Company.

---