“To write is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly. ”
I visit him every Christmas / where everything is dry in the vacuumed / memory sealed by death…
FEAR WOULD HAVE ME BUSY, ITS FINGERS / IN MY HAIR.
He forgot bones until / he broke one. I forgot / names until they were called.
there is the white belly of a hawk bending / over the ford dealership on central avenue
if the wind was down, you could hear / tires on gravel from a mile back / standing outside our house
I have / picked you from bodies, finger-brushed the crumbling / petals of your shed housings
these days I settle for a contact high / off the taste of all the lies I swallowed
Sometimes when I descend the stairs, I carry sugar cubes in my / sweating palms and barely escape with blood on my knuckles.
having in common oblivion / disguised as transition / their bodies, in water, became new to one another.
my house is ready for you / to beat your wings against its cage
The art monster ate my second baby / and the third and fourth one after that. / I wrote their flesh away in pen and ink, / my paper powdered with the fine bone dust / of their white teeth.
by the lazy / fisherman of my / mother’s ghost. She / pulls me gentle. / She pulls me / slow.
She likes to go out in the darkness / and make soft sounds, her slip-on Keds kneading / the gravel…