Shannon tapped her pencil on the desk, trying to command my attention.
His only boy, first caught in crossfire
then a crowded E.R. where shouts for back-up,
a gurney, a god mixed with heartbeats
I’ve been on both sides of the speed-dating table at Push to Publish.
Walter Ego once said that all thematic roads, no matter how circuitous, eventually lead back to love.
On New Years Day in Philadelphia
when I was ten and you were seventy,
There’s paint slapped onto
my sky, thick like an impression
I want to buy a forest that will speak
in calm sentences about the aftermath.
It’s hard to say what we’ve missed
in these years, you not even
solid enough to be a memory
I kept my father’s ashes in a drawer
where I kept scarves, belts and Xanax.
Before me lies a whole crow