Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

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

I am still waiting for the lion

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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