At Breakfast
At Breakfast
(The Thundergod’s Daughter)
On television, the weatherman predicts
rain over L.A.
because last night I orgasmed
under Brad Pitt—
in my dream. There’ll be lightning
today. An earthquake,
maybe, to arch the Rockies.
Last night it was a bird,
some silver-breasted moon-finch,
that split my pelvis,
bolted through the bedcover’s
folds, beat air,
knocked over the dolls
my father bought
for me that Christmas when,
drunk, mother slipped
and told the secret of the thunder-
god’s power:
“I’ve never loved him,” she said,
“but hell if he
can’t fuck.”
Appears in “Kakalak Anthology of Carolina Poets”