In the yard: my mother dyes silk
from onion skins, avocado pits,
rusted screws. Ring of yellow grass

crop-circled where the paddling pool
sat slimy with rainwater all winter.
In pale green light we pile palm

branches on the lawn like a funeral
pyre, plant crucifix orchards
along the fence line, and when the newborn

brush turkey is pecked to death,
bury the threadbare body in the garden
grave where pet mice rest, wrapped
in eucalypt tissues, origami coffins.


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