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

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.