here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

I am still waiting for the lion

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.