The Origin of Our Firstborns

The color of an iris 

flecked with black

wings of a humming

bird, ruby throated

opium firebird, hanging 

by a long black twine

ripped from the seem 

of a hound's. Collar

bones ratting in the

rafters above the stables

wrapped in red prom dresses,

where your mother prayed

to the stars, that night, tattooed 

onto my belly. She kissed it

as the horses croaked in the shadows,

as the wind howled like bloodhounds

with fresh pheasants in their mouths,

as my hair scratched her eyes

and set them on fire like lanterns

on New Years Eve, as fireworks

burnt holes in her mouth and 

she said that I loved her.