Gardening, a mother gives a daughter a lesson on mass loss by Caitlin Roach

Nothing left to binge but
glut the hollow, the thin sac’s

cavity hoarding these bright
bones like marbled silks

rattling in a cage, greened
and glinting. Hold the husk &

suck each bead out. See,
there are degrees of loss–

speeds at which pain travels
through the body. See there,

even the rose neck’s bent.
I do not need to tell you

I’m sick. I want to be re-
membered for the absence

my body made in space. Look:
a thick sap drip lets off the star-

gazer’s pistil tip. I have two
things to tell you: one by one

the colibrís empty themselves
from the trumpet creeper. One

day I’ll unfix from this pain
& kneel among the cosmos

I’ve always wanted. Listen:
inside each moment is another

star dying. Watch: when I peel back
the saguaro’s ribs, out will roll

whole startling worlds.

Caitlin Roach’s poems appear or are forthcoming in jubilat, Narrative, Columbia Journal, Tin House, Best New Poets, Colorado Review, The Iowa Review, and elsewhere. She earned an MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and teaches at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. More can be found at caitlinroach.com.