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Heartache & Lossexpand_moreGod, I need to know what happened to those who tried to cross.
His mooseness was implacable, the light behind him from the trees.
“Tell me about the things you can’t tell me about when I’m dressed.”
All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.
“We don’t feel like a couple. Haven’t felt like a couple for a very long while.”
What felt like sanctity now felt like nothingness, like death.
He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.
Every day I was forced to return to the one place I did not want to be.
One makes one’s peace with words in a poem and space in a dream.
Everything is mine on loan: the leaves I’ve combed out of my hands.
Before giant pandas earn heir name, they cub pinkly and mewling.
It wasn’t the bees I thought to tell but wasps the evening you died.
My mother hoped moving would erase the affair with a married man.
The transformation of their maid from shadow to sexpot thrills Maizie.
As soon as her grandparents left, BLAM, the dance in her died.
My first suicidal ideations occurred to me when I was ten, eleven, twelve.
Here I am, king of the gods, making a fool of myself just to get under your gown.
I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.
She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
When I’m reading him I feel myself come closer to you than usual.
My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old slip.
No one asked that, changed as he was, he do more than survive.
If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.
“Refuge,” Nina said, tilting her head back; it was a word she learned.
my baba sits in a midwest garage with the hood propped open.
The dead man’s suit coat is a good fit through the shoulders.
The legendary author Robert Stone, in the words of his friends.
If angels were made of music, surely they would vanish.
Fortyish, give or take, each of them correctly estimates the other to be.
