poetry

  Because we didn’t talk about [    ]   Because Mom only said I know what you’re doing            when the shower’s head was left pulsing. Because I knew that meant [    ] was something not to be caught … Read More

  but it’s different than the usual one where I’ve been drinking and remember quite suddenly, that I’m very   very round. Where it’s all confusion and shame until the moment I snap awake sweating. In the new one, the … Read More

  If I dream a bird on the floor sick or injured, maybe able to be gathered in a towel and taken somewhere to somebody—   once day comes and I go off into it, it makes no sense to … Read More

  I know, because I’ve been there and seen it myself, where he dragged each drawer out of his dresser into the backyard and flung his clothes into an empty lot. What was I supposed to do after that? I … Read More

  In your hospital room we fall in love again with the sky, its spring cloudscape to the west, its vast expanse, variation on the theme of nebula.   The small machine that sends vapor—a cloud of mist—to your lungs … Read More

  —after The Botany of Desire   My sweet earthnut, I was monoculture when the last bear of matrimony crunched   down my crabbed heart and shat out the seeds, each a rogue brain, its own assay of autumn   … Read More

  Everyone I know who’s been divorced says on her wedding day, she knew. Which is lucky for me, I’ve always known nothing.   When I ask the Ouija board what is wrong with me, it planchettes wryly, “Conditions good.” … Read More

  when I steam brown rice I remember you in the smell   when I peel purple onions I hold a wooden matchstick between my teeth   you told me it would keep away the tears   when I mince … Read More

  On the moon at noon the sky is black. You can read through closed eyes but six feet above your head the nothing sits munching little stars, microgreens to the void. Nervous yet? First leaves look nothing like the … Read More

  Before, I thought unrest was a house to move through. And tomorrow, and the after-days: a yellow window blinking on and off from the smeared street, a movement in the vacant lot something living made. A movement in the … Read More

  Redwing shouldering home, shouldering far from home, I know not but his red-capped sleeves, his epaulets. I know not but his beak, his black bird tongue, spool of him unwinding between each branch and crotch until he ends. I … Read More

  I gave the yellow skirt away and now some other woman wears it. This mild February day my body longs for spring. But I remember the skirt was heavy, made for winter, its color not of pollen but closer … Read More