Carved from the dove in my mother's sleeve                 I rode the first breath of November, reins wrapped thricearound my pickled thumbs. How many months                 did I dream in red and light, howmany hours did my ear sojourn to the rhythm of her yellow tongue?As a girl, like a girl, I held silk synonymouswith dirt, whispered plum-somethings to God in the armpit of my pillow—what I tell him cannot be caught by man:                 grace is a cupboard discoveredbackward, the Lord's love softer than a dish of forgotten butter.With one nail I lured the wood from the door, left                 the shape of the cross in my stead. With another nail, I hungbehind a tapestry while a suitor sought by lust to paint medead. Against my shift, that stitched menagerie, most menacing                 the martyr red of blunt-faced poppies, the glint of the wood anemone.                 In the heart of the foliage I know there roosts a snake-necked fowl—its tail a green heaven hosting a hundred watchful eyes,                 as blue as night beading the rosary between my thighs.