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The first time we were alone, I knew it before he even told me.

We cling to an exact number of planets, to the Earth Our Mother.

Ghost still pace Georgia, hungry for babies, for husbands.

She was thinking about what she would say when the time came.

They need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.

Pulling the bird from his throat, how it’ll smell of bloodied oat.

No, you may not walk there. No, you may not stand on that. He is not here.

I thought that proved he blamed me. I thought they all did.

What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?

I ask that now I be allowed to see the one my vision has been denied.

The linebacker grins, but the lines around his eyes tighten.

There was a time when all I wanted was go back. Ask all the questions.

When I saw my father for the last time, we both did the same thing.

a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us masked & rocking

The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.

The woman who is known only through a man is known wrong.

I could page the women’s voices in their velvet bags bound with string.

“were all here pregaming. at my dads apt. Wher the duck are u.”

It begins on the sunny morning of November 14, 1960.

“I am not in the least fond of Venice. I should like to go far away!”

We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.

There is a baby in the square, plumped down on Papa’s thigh.

A photo essay on hope in the wake of the devastating Bosnian War.

It’s a mistake to be here, he thinks, but he doesn’t turn around.

“I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

There was a blue wool afghan draped across the back of the couch.

I was getting a little fogged, but I recognized irony when I heard it.

I walk and I rest while the eyes of my dead look through my own.

I felt that this maternal oblivion could be the rest of my life.

Meghan Dunn