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

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

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

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

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

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

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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

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