by Alison Myers Ale Matei A thimble and arrow, the red arch of bird of paradise and leaves so waxy they rival the plastic ones in the dining room: these boys have sorries for everyone and everything else (and I was a thing). Martyred with words, each success, their own finding, shot from a shaft, or close enough to stab, or a stone, maybe another shovel of earth or tide higher, and now I’ve become only ears and a nursemaid, giving and taking sacraments only eating my own body