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My daughter swallows arrows of sunlight on her way to the grave.

Doisneau might have eyed and shot us for how brazenly we kissed.

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

I knew in the dream that I was a condor in the shape of a girl.

You must not be afraid of what waits after death, my past self says.

I am almost never standing in the ocean, not that way, not anymore.

Florence’s cobbled streets spoke like a broken wheel, a halfhearted inferno.

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

He began singing, the words to a song that played from hidden speakers.

The eyes of men were drawn, numb and automatic, to her youthfulness.

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

A question from one of your favorite songs what would you do

After moving, I began to look at the images and piece them together.

“Pick your switch,” says my father and I’m stepping out into the forest.

The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.

In my eyes is the flame of the adolescent he wants to hire.

Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.

Who know fear is an aphrodisiac & nothing is scarier than time.

Did Sharon and Roy make it harder or easier for their mother to leave?

Once I took it in my mouth, I had to admit pity tastes like sandwiches.

I received a surprise invitation to a tryout camp at Ebbets Field.

The notebook’s cotton pages are spangled with axes and sickles.

Why don’t we just get drunk and walk down the middle of Fifth Avenue.

I have so many questions for you, for you are closer to me than anyone.

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

We’d open our mouths and sink, trying to make an ocean of ourselves.

Finger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.

You’ll learn to love the spoil, the apple’s softest flesh, the bruise.

Photo portraits, landscapes, and world scenes by Sandra Lloyd.