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.

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

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 still waiting for the lion

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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