Still Life with an Opioid Epidemic

The milktooth is no merely.
Ask the nurse.

This will be one weaning after another
and so I say

beware the naiads:
Every last one leaves

a hairpin, a parasol, a peony
orphaning each and after, all

weep over the smallest things:
the lank of them

lying in rooms whose
walls cough across

the hall from Mother who
pretends the curtains aren’t

crawling towards their own
economy.

Paint peeling yawns
through the longest

withdrawal, a larghetto:
Infinitesimal feet, the dying

cord, a foreskin,
the sound of that

fist
beating against the bassinette

by the fern
and the fern’s condolences.