Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
The collective failure of ethical standards
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I myself should never have been born
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…