#24

In a ginger-bake skull home,
an oven hut ash face,
a forest-armed grasp-force
pulling capes near from ghosts.

Why does your mother
keep baking bread with bones?

Scoop the moon like a flour-powdered
loaf off the slate sky,
and find the tiny skeleton
of your ring finger.

Why does the moon keep glowing
even when it's on the slab?

Sweet moon, precious moon,
I will cut you into a million pieces
and you will find light
in the cuts, in the gaps.