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She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.

Lebanon’s sky was full of stars. The sky here doesn’t have any stars.

I try to believe that even when cords are cut or people die we connect.

Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

She only eats condiments, pickles, slices of sharp cheddar.

If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?

Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.

Corn repeats itself into a haze of tassels and sheaving leaves.

Your words will strike her heart like Saint Teresa’s flaming arrow.

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

Dan Gerber reads poems of boyhood, and from the end of his mother’s life.

Kansas is a cold dessert, I say. No, Kansas is a tongue depressor, he says.

Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.

A homecoming, she says, as if you hadn’t been back in decades.

In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

No fields of gold. No ripe. One hill, no wave, no roll. I am billboards.

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.

I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.

Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.

My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.

Men came over carrying lanterns and pulled away the chunks of ice.

Let me lie down with you and listen, let me tell you what I know.

She takes her hand to my scalp: eyes close as if tasting lemon cake.

Tanya jokes that she comes to the East Coast now only for funerals.

Turns out my body’s a dollar sweet potato, her screen said.

ursula says she’s seen everyone she loves in an apple, save herself.

When the population was whiter, they fawned over the Korean.