You never read my poems and yet you are the one who made this life safe enough to write them.
Unmade bed, are you thinking what I'm thinking.
Gathering goldenrod for the neighbor's goats, leaving some for mid-September bees.
What I won't do for certain women.
We sit quietly watching the moon between maple trees just beginning to turn.
He asks me to be in my body in a way I find terrifying but I try, for him I try, as we both know only another man can truly understand this particular fear.
Cartoon demons, watercolor angels.
It's all forever now!
Learning with K. it's okay to let certain lessons go, it's okay to be happy and free.
Once I decided to no longer be lonely, the brief moments of solitude became diamantine, a light piercing it from all directions at once.
The hay loft becomes a chapel in which sex is gently forgotten in favor of communion.
At an early age I swallowed a compass, how else do you think I managed the difficult landscapes I was forced to live in like a rat?
Oh Fall River thank you for existing for without you I would not have understood how deep and slow the River of Beauty truly is.
Not Icarus after all but the one who refused the wings and then cried a long time on the beach watching his father fly away forever and his brother die, crashing into the sea.
Who or what is behind this, I want to say thank you.
Suicides whose calls I did not return in time, forgive me.
Made feral by a mother who had seen more of hell than one would wish upon an enemy, and a father whose eyes were stolen by a decades-old hurricane.
Chrisoula knits while I read Sarah Hrdy, now and then reading aloud this or that sentence, may I never forget to be grateful.
Coming to terms with Tara Singh again.
There is only one love, thirty years after the wedding we reach at last the marriage, and even then, even then.
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