Only a torso now, the headlong severed from the neck, pelvistwisted off like a stubborn root.
I wish we were livinga story of desire, butI don’t feel Odysseus beating out his taleof longing at the oars
Forever you find
your fatherin other faces—
a balding head or beard enoughto send you following
A stifling heat—the air heavy—and all around the loud, wet forest knotting the gaps in its own sound.
A peace long earned, then broken;
Cutting down Chambers St.
my pinky toenail comes clean off.
Another little ghost
What if each timeyou caused paina small, round stonewas put in your pocketpebbles for inducingself-doubt
That one smelled like a Bradford pear you said.
St. Stephen’s Day: home unsettled, a rupture, and here the ruched branch has turned itself outward,
its soft, bright innards held up along the path. At first, a golden
Women used to wean their babiesBy painting their breasts black.Hurricane clouds are black.The Earth is weaning us.
Before I leave for good, I lift the pie server a final time, drop the receipt facedown next to the lemon blueberry slice, then my apron in the parking lot