La Llorona as Andrea Yates

The mouse hangs by its tail, & kitchen chairs stand still on their beaks. I left the eggs boiling on the stove, the iron hot. Everything is going up in flames. I don’t mind. I watch the children float like leaves while the plastic car sinks to the bottom of the tub. A steady beat within my diaphragm predicts the  next earthquake, records its rhythm in blood vessels until the walls collapse. I was once a boiled egg before I was this: chewed cuticles & orchids, ponytails & rapes. Somewhere in Texas, a crowd predicts my death. They say it will sound like the scream of a tuba being born.