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

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

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

I am still waiting for the lion

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

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

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

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