People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
I am still waiting for the lion
The sin is existing.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
four-thirty a.m.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?