End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.
Why did it take Steven’s small coffin to get me to see my own son?
The year we left the reservation a white boy gave me a trash bag.
Her top lip lingered behind, pressed between his. They were soaked.
The moon it is red, and the stars are fled but all the sky is a-burning.
It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.