Out of salt marsh, out of flat and reed,
out of crabgrass and black pine
they looked like swans
an archipelago of upturned sinks
dumped in a field. And I—
out of Meth, out on bail,
my punked-out throat slaked
threadbare— What made me
perch heel on wing above their necks?
Master, Miscreant— my body
buckling as I arched and wailed
a sledge into the porcelain birds—
I was what I heard looping in my head:
Anger is an energy. Mother,
I wasn’t born as much as I fell out.
Mother, it’s morning.
I don’t know what’s left to praise.
Your child’s home, a blistered sun
tattooed over a sacral crest.
—— James Hoch, Leda’s Aubade of Sink and Sledge, from Miscreants