Self-portrait from the Edge of the World

I, dark. A deer.
Skinned. Bone
and antlers in a ruined wood.

Still a woman
I am bearing twigs.

My heart, swung-out
is a bird. Flown.

The trees swell. Grief is a foetus. Waiting.

My lost tongue warns you that the flood is soon/the rubbing flood
and all its drownings.