A father peeled the night / from another midnight & begged / me to lie
I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.
However hard you try to make amends, they will still condemn you.
We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.
When he was a child, my father had a cousin who was buried by a plow.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them. A landlocked grief.
To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.
I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
I’ll see you on the sea, they say, but then they float past on a raft
He tuned the future backward as he left the ringing water to reclaim me.
What if my mother could have been happy if I hadn’t been born?
I sit next to a man I never loved but let kiss me wetly for two months.
Always I obliged the urban tree, any speechless unblessed nature.
Here is my aphorism of the day: Happy people are monogamous.
Death is a lack, I suppose, and love more so. But I will not falter.
They taught us do not touch it, but who can keep from touching it?
…when you walk to the edge of the Mekong and make a wish…
You walk and the world bends toward you like leaves waiting for rain.
The towns died as quickly as a single house, a house like ours, lit gold within.
I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.
We will use my entire bed and all my dishes, make dirty each chair.
We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.
The hound, the leash, the fence, the hens. So many of them.
I’m happy in the unmapped landscape inside the bottle.
My relationship with god resembled that of a prisoner and firing squad.
This is the day when the saints all go silently to church in France.
Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.
I couldn’t love the tree in every soul shouldering its own tiny autumn.
Alva knows the storm is coming. The ground is falling away.