It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
four-thirty a.m.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.