Lie at an acute angle on a slab of wood,
extend left arm up, clutch right thigh.

In the ground, red root— center, plant a bare bulb
wrong side up— yanked out screaming.

Sever forefinger, thumb—a child calls the frantic
Mother, Where are the stubs? I’ll find them soon.

Doctors might mend. Lost. Somewhere in a doll
House along with buried Navajo jewelry— names

Of goldfish where the cat hunkered down, stalked,
with gold eyes surveyed hollow rooms, responded

To cues for danger. Alive— still thanks to wariness,
trust— she is the only one remembering.