My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.
We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.
I’m alive, Sarah thinks, the slam of his look going all the way in.
Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.
Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.
“You look like you’re about to fall over,” he says. “Are you all right?”
Suddenly two would dart and clasp one another belly to belly.
Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?
This is the stupid math of loving another human being.
The mechanism and its crank pull us forever closer, you and I.
I want you enough to gnash you into a silence made from pieces of silver.
Regarding the affairs of our Father, your demon is Ennui.
I am veins and breath, the entrance the world passes through.
Like lions in cages, women like me dream . . . of freedom . . .
She bequeathed her children a mother who dreams and smiles.
I bled. God didn’t want to hear about it. He said unclean and so it was.
It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.
There’s no need to check for a pulse, hold a hand mirror for breath.
I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.
What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.
Her knees seemed about to give way, and he quickly grabbed her elbow.
You are home in your bed like a soft animal with really intense feelers.
Walking on Canal Street, I slipped on the curb and fell on my face.
All of those feelings—you do not have them, they have you.
The year we left the reservation a white boy gave me a trash bag.
The story of Wing Biddlebaum’s hands is worth a book in itself.
Rules are rules. No one comes this close, this fast. Protocol reigns.