I often picture an odd world where we’re all gone and all that’s left are the scarecrows.

they didn’t come from where you think —

I grew them from my hair in their larval forms,

caterpillars nipping at my skin,

their tiny footsteps dappling my skull 

and in turn I covered their small bodies

like a blanket.

dear thing / blessed bad-luck omen / do they know you anymore in this god-fearing place? / can they explain you away in myth / or in miracles?

what odd recurrences: I dreamt of the sea again

and us just talking, wave-tossed.

She’s made from nothing: dust, prayer,

apple skins, and she asks to be buried

in the desert.