My Museum
I hold someone’s hand in the city
And repeat, “this is a dream abt birdwatching.”
I open up the first page of the book.
Somewhere, a woman very far away asks me:
“Shall I give my bird
A real beak or an orange one?”
Are you broken in a sense that
You can’t move, or that your body is slowly receding?
This is a depressing book.
All girls can decide for themselves.
I fold my legs into different positions,
Melting like a flower melts her
In all the movies. I realize
The key factor of my body:
I am just a container. This is
A particular way of organizing.
A Song for a Mother
In my throat is a song for a mother
Who has lost her eggs for no reason.
There’s a tradition and it’s sinking
Like a public pool with yellow
Umbrellas, invisible and a metaphor
For any kind of early death.
This is one thing I believe.
Women will be okay someday.
Maybe we will train ourselves
To sit comfortably and write declarations
Of sadness for hours on end.
My heart bleeds out of a funnel
That goes directly to another heart.
I don’t know why. The dogs will run
Around until there are no dogs.
The fence wraps around the house
And then wraps around your waist.
The theory of why we live here
Has always and never
Been important to me.
Delia Rainey is a musician and a recent graduate of the University of Missouri in Columbia, Missouri, where she interned at The Missouri Review. Her poetry has been featured in Blacktop Passages, Lower Lip Zine, Cactus Heart, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and the upcoming issue of Pleiades.