I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

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

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

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.

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

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

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

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

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

I have observed, the theorist
I am