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Because loss is the back of the photographwe never look at, I write your deathbedscenario on the palm of my handwhile your husband prays and your motherbrings dessert to the funeral. So sensitive,I hear you say at the edge of heaven, the endof history, so strange how we’re herefor only an eyeflash. You stumblewith your…

Like the deer who kept returningto our office because for monthsthe receptionist left salt licksin the underbrush.                                        How would it knowthe receptionist died sleddingwith her children in a late spring snow?                                        Sometimes painbecomes the deer—it keeps showing upthough I have nothing to give it,so I watch it from my office windowuntil it turns, tilts its head at…

Now your child can visit steamy jungles, grassy plains,and the dark depths of the oceans. To meet and learnsurprising facts about the magnificent animals thatlive there!—Zoobooks Commercial Today, I’ve been lying 40 minutes in the grass with a book, at the quad,in between paths both running together and nowhere, purposefully expeditious, of the University I…

has gone mad about you and your recent remarkson black life. My father suggests cremationif I die before him because it’s cheaper.I want to be cremated. I’ve wept over a bad embalming job.Might I ask, why aren’t you online talking about my eyes?Or where you go when you want to write about hunger?Remember Denzel Washington…

We were sitting shoulder to shoulder looking at the firesin the canyon and I said something about distance, desire moving from archive to digital, I was thinking of startingsomething, despite time zones or children, husbands or wives. The clouds parted an instant, I thought I sawthe shadow of cumulus cross your face but it was…

What happens to good girls?They get presents.What happens to bad girls?They get tied up & locked in the closet. A stiletto was first a pen,Then a dagger,Now a heel.Caravaggio’s Medusa was painted on a shield.The painting itself is an object of warfare.I wear purple marks from you on myEyes & hips. Medusa’s head is full…

A day of Prosecco & maps.You inhaled the musk from my hair.You drove my childhood curves;I dressed in the part. I rode shotgun inYour dead father’s Porsche.The car he never lived to drive.The car he never could afford. Tupac took us up to the hill town,Bach Fugues brought us down.They say the first witch ever,Daughter…

“I have nothing at all to sayBut I want to say it anyway…”          —Marcello Mastroianni, 8½ In my perfect 6-year-old FrenchI’m singing Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques.Dormez-vous? before the white capsand the waves’ salt spray—it’sthe only song I know to the end,the only world…                                        Sun burningthrough the mist, white as a Eucharist,obscure as everything I hopeto one day…

your way of avoiding meis just as good as mine— one stone fence, one lastlittle field—i won’t bother anyone here if you won’t—but we ruined Saturday, agreeing to just amblein the rain when really the important strangersbeckoned us because they needed bothof us at once— strangers can bring exquisitepressure to a meeting— you turn to…