~
PLAIN ACHE
I write to missing things of knowing what took them. given the chance, what could god describe? I don’t know if what I hear is a sound or sound’s hostage, but it’s enough to make light remember losing a child and with it a boy and with him the fourth wolf he killed in his sleep. we don’t come from love, but we love.
~
HURRIED ACHE
after slamming my fingers in a car door, the hand looks for days as if god has tried to pry a nail from a piece of bread. people kiss me and I tell them my footprints can’t breathe. when a bug hits the windshield, my blood gets a star.
~
CARRIED ACHE
I like to think of my grandmother as always on her way to an obstacle course for invisible children
(as combing her hair in a spiderless wind
~
BONE NOTES
i
sadness slips from the torn muscle of grief
ii.
insomniacs
here
are so
polite
and haircuts
are free
iii.
use cocoon
in a sentence
~
SO YOUNG IS LOSS
reading
to children
who miss
neglect
~
EXILE ACHE
I didn’t lose a tooth, says the child, there’s just one you can’t see. not a single horse has remembered to spy on the devil. that fish went right through me and I dream it back. mom never has a stick. the food in our stomachs dies at different speeds.
_
TRINITY ACHE
not a yesterday goes by I don’t pretend to know everyone. mom has eaten the snail. her father is still being shot.
~
GUIDE ACHE
if I could love them all, they wouldn’t be here. movies make her father angry. he asks her what is always trapped but never surrounded. her heart is an owl with a heart. mirror, she says, but doesn’t. a rain relearns the earth.
~
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