Answering a Call from the Bean Sidhe

She picks her words like they’re pins from grenades.

The blasts were last night, but the shrapnel flies

This morning. It litters my kitchen floor,

chews chunks from my toes as I enter to

hear what my phone bleats for. Each lamprey tooth

carves words from songs we shared on cold mornings

like this. Her skirt is still in the sink. Her

last task for me, to clean the mud from its hem.