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Eight years, and she was ready to call it quits. They were both ready.

Mom often went to work on her days off. The library was her refuge.

It was the year we learned to wash our hands. That was one lesson.

The beasts and fowl and all manner of slithery thing can love like us.

It will be years before the kids see us as real people, not just as parents.

A branch breaks and the body lands the wrong way. Snapping is easy.

His name is Lloyd. He lives on Percival. He’s super creepy.

How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?

Doctor, he devoted. When she poorly, he bring her mint tea in bed.

The citizens of Aunay believed Pierre Rivière batshit, dimwitted.

It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.

We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.

Art is a way for the mind to master the body, even if it is not one’s own.

she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave

The purple-eyed women on her mom’s side began generations ago.

It’s like having your parents in the room. Patrolling our sleep, our sex life.

I reviewed the rules for myself, among them: stay in the moment.

My mother hoped moving would erase the affair with a married man.

I used to be known for the humor of my music, the lightness of touch.

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.

The Poet Laureate reads three poems in his New Hampshire home.

All down my street the new fathers beat the kingness out of the kings.

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

He got people on the conveyor belt that carried them up to heaven.

She had learned that it was easy to get Sylvi to do things.