"Happy Trigger."
Off season and in the burnt forest of my nightgown,
a feral undergrowth that marks me as burial site,
to be still enough or just enough.
My arms become fat arms, hearth.
I eat dirt for doubt, a secret bleached old as lie.
I out want like a spindly-winged monster.
If I were a bug, were I, then you'd hope for reparation
and paint more brown into the plot.