she’s dead    our wee birdy
among the cherry trees

dead as Shakespeare
dead as a door knell

no longer safe
in the lap of The Lord’s Prayer;

she died
in the depths of the red armchair

with Rescue looking on
folding skinny-boy arms;

our little makeweight’s
flown to Dinard like all the dead

or she’s dusting Picasso’s fancy apartment
at the Bateau-Lavoir forever, 

our best-known child  
our childer
our crow-coated kiddo,

and why not?
why should the child live,

to be bound
by the browser button of gender

woman-trapped
in the rank knuckle-down dungeon of the womb?

better be dead
on the death march     she said

better be gone with my luck

so chain the clouds to my foot auntie
fill my knapsack with rocks

I’ll maul the Thames with my mastiff teeth
and hie me away over the plague pit