The tree holds on
to a few scrawny leaves.

When I couldn’t make enough
milk, I cried

watching the carpet fibers bloat
with liquid, the night I spilled
what little I had.

We’re all deficient
in sunlight
this time of year.

I’ve read so many poems
mentioning stars collapsing,
their dead light. God told Abraham

these shining duds
are your descendants,
like it was a good thing.