Anne Heide





What chance the mother won

said when she comes to a road,
it will be silver or sponge.


A seam let in the fallen-down nursery.
She knows of lead-blood,

and knows the crib-hunt followed

into others’ tall houses
gifting speed and broken windows.


Pink nails at the bed-hem sheening.

Ready with cloth to swaddle.







The long-necked
wake of winter
and her shiver

at passing
into bone-hollow.


You see, said,
never hear
taut string
when it lines
against the


The mother
is arrested,
like limes in hand.

Said, what do you know,
I'm carrying again.





Lullaby for Shedding Scales

Here a twin at the pinched coast:

of shore, of salt, of snouted grass and turned up beach.

Here a twin made of miniature doubles:

alewives, for example

foam, for example, gills trapped in the wash.

Resemble twin, toothless and sharp.

And rough wing-fins
And sand beds

And many lines of tide for bathing,