I want to play a game. 

I’ll give you a word, and you tell me all its stories. 

We’ll start with something easy. 

[Fertility]

Simple. Full of opportunity, of prosperity.

Silent birthday wishes relit year after year,

Where hunger burns down to nubs and eats 

your insides out.

Fertility:

Long-throated, cobalt, and intricate,

it waltzes across the tongue like a bird of paradise,

performing a ritual for creation.

Good, now sever the head and the tail— 

ignore the belly—

see who leads the vanguard. 

The start must have an end.

Fer-Ty:

A secret dared not be shared.

We’re not even dating.

We’re not even flirting.

We’re not even talking.

Not yet.

Fer-Ty:

It feels right to give it a name.

Ferty. And we embrace.

Ferty. Look what we can make.

Set the crockpot to Low and let simmer 

for 6 to 8 years, depending on preference.

Fertil:

The metaphors write themselves.

Fertil:

Through nurtured tending or

wild gardens,

roots find their hold,

vines climb the grout lines,

and buds spawn.

Follow to where the mycelium gorge,

prune and propagate.

ility:

Stable. Comfort. Permeable. Potable.

Live it. Inhale it. Never let it go.

Glue the drain plug down,

knock the faucet off the wall, and

let

the

basin

overflow.

Shoot high. Wish low. Dramatics are for the 

dreamers, and you stopped dreaming.

Tili:

Now, that’s a cute name for a girl.

Tili:

 The box says:

NEW AND EASY

Humans read faces easier

than one line or two lines or 

faint lines or worry lines,

so watch the expression appear like magic.

FE:

There’s iron in your gut.

FE: There’s iron on your fingers.

FE:

Buckshot.

A typical 12-gauge, 2 ¾-inch shell holds eight BBs.

FE: Aim small, miss small.

FE:

Iron peppered across our back,

cratering the porcelain skin.

Til:

death do us part.

Til:

“You must wait,”

Til: Count the months by the stacks of calendars.

Til:

“three

confirmed

miscarriages,

or

a

year

of

trying.”

The selenite owl in your pocket lost its face.

t:

Now, now, that’s too easy. 

We don’t cheat. 

Do it the right way, like everyone before.

You’re young—you’ve got time.

T:

Uppercased and underlined and unspoken.

Indentured trauma.

Thank you.

TY:

Chamomile with raw honey.

No caffeine, the internet says.

No gluten. No dairy. Remove inhibitors.

Don’t you want this? 

Can’t you sacrifice for a miracle?

il:

stand naked and cold,

let the bathroom fill to the ceiling,

‘til the window shatters and

the door bulges

and the deluge sends you home like

winter high tide,

arms out, head slumped,

examined,

a once-shape,

bloated and popped and translucent.

Immaculate.

Lit:

by fluorescent and antiseptic,

while Mary Magdelene tends

to the pockets of fester,

digging out each BB.

Does the gooseflesh hide

the answers in braille?

Rub the spots away and hide

in apathy.

Til:

The wounds go dry. Scab.

Mary must pick the wound fresh

before it can be cleaned.

Clean hands have never

peeled a pomegranate.

Tilit:

Buttressed between the house and the why.

House-Tilit-Y.

Now look who is getting clever.

Tilit, Tilit, Tilit:

Sing the BBs

as they dance

along the cobblestones.

Gold, silver, copper, jewels,

Riches and treasures and monthly installments.

FE:

Iron no more,

rusted and oxidized,

they roll downhill,

shadowed by a fat paper tadpole on a string.

The immaculate is unwavering.

IL:

We’re not even sick.

Tilit. 

Tilit. 

Tilit.

FE:

Your fillings feel loose.

Let's not get lost now.

Quench the blade.

Find the center.

Start again.

Fer-ty:

Has anyone ever stopped and

listened

to the birds of paradise sing?

Tili:

It’s only a game.