Women in green houses
lick their fingers clean
draw lines across the glass
until they are barred in.
When darkness comes
they plant tulip bulbs
under a January wolf moon
packing them in with moss
dropped by crows.
They wait for the children
but they do not come;
they sold their blood
for a ticket, putting in
the distance. Now the women
grow big breasted, their faces
once lovely as Spring
are bandaged like their pots
against the frost.