Ada Limón

I’d choose the moon, always the sister moon.

Cold, comely queen of the sky.

but some days I can see the point

in growing something, even if

it’s just to say I cared enough.

We are the weeds.

I plant three seeds

As a spell.

My god,

I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her

raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel

that I never got wet.

I say something

to myself that’s between a prayer and a curse—how dare we live

on this earth

THE VULTURE & THE BODY

What if, instead of carrying

a child, I am supposed to carry grief?

We do what we have

to do to not cleave the body too quickly.

The rude radio

disc jockey licks his lips into the studio’s mic

and says something about motorboating

her tits jammed with nose candy and I’m

thinking of my friend who’s considering

a mastectomy to stay alive, another who

said she’d cut them off herself if it meant

living.