Poetry

So she could cope with the guilt
she renamed the dog before taking it
to the pound

With a lowball of Jack and fading ice
In one hand, he took me my by the other,
And without shoes on our feet,

Charley, or Cholley, or Chol—
grew gardenias, raised kids and tropical fish,
and broke the knees and heads of grown men.
A soldier in a fitted

The tree has no choice but to have its heart
exposed as I coax my mother to sleep.

You can start anywhere, with anything.
The tap of your fingerprint on an
unsuspecting ant. The release of a rope

I blame chance, that reprobate,
for my slide and spin and slow-motion
carom across both lanes.

The fig tree has fallen in love with the place in the yard
that separates neighbor from neighbor. I didn’t ask permission
to

find a recipe, one that calls for
flour, salt, wounds, and
tiny daggers.

The problem is that
I can’t tell him what
I think about the fact
that he died.

asphyxiation; aliens, from mars of course; black cats, the
bad luck kind; drowning, amidst those who drowned before
me & the muck that is decay;