The San Fernando Valley

The neighbor’s second wife calls the helicopters circling our house ghetto
birds. I stop talking to her. The same day, I learn

the soft triangle at the back of a horse's lower leg is actually a miniature
heart. A protective blood-cushion I've pushed my thumb into

thousands of times to release a hoof for cleaning. I donate books
to the local library, leave little strips of paper with the names of my favorite

porn stars inside. What if desire is just muscle memory? My daughter
has been peeing on the ground of the shower at the public pool. She does this

with her friends, says she likes the way the tiles look when they run yellow,
her fresh young legs hot and burning after a long day of sun.

Later, she tells me she also pees in the pool, loves the feel of warm
water surrounding her. Like a womb, I say, and I want to tell her 

I did this too. Without a shred of shame, she parades
across the deck, goggles flashing, urine kicking up from her heels.

Kate Sweeney is pursuing an MFA at Bennington College. She has poems most recently appearing or forthcoming from Palette Poetry, Northwest Review, Muzzle Magazine, Jetfuel Review & other places. Kate has a chapbook, The Oranges Will Still Grow Without Us (Ethel).