Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
I have observed, the theorist I am
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
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.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.