Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
I am still waiting for the lion
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
the man is stayed bent over the canvas of my sofa. the man is me the man is him self and I bring down the whip…
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
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.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…