The sin is existing.

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

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

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

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

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

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

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.

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

my father holds
his favorite drink

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.