The Melancholy of Mechagirl

but my father cut the peach with two clean strokes,

each slice falling onto the cutting board at the same moment

like four wasting moons.

THE GIRL WITH TWO SKINS

On your knees between moon-green shoots,

beside a sack of seed, a silver can, a white spade,

a ball is tucked into the bustle of your skirt:

like a pearl

but not a pearl.

You pulled it up

round as a beet from between the mint and the beans

where I had sunk it in the earth,

as though I fished

for loam-finned, moss-gilled coelacanth

at the bottom of the world.

I thought it safe.

I crawl to you on belly henna-bright,

teeth out,

scratching the basil sprouts—

eyes flash phosphor. In the late light,

slant gold light,

you must see

the old tail echo

beneath my muddy dress:

two, three, nine.

I howl against the barking churchbells:

Give it back, give it back,

I need it.

II.