March 2020

In the dry season, drops drift down / every afternoon. / In the wet season, water pours from the sky / all day and all night / for weeks. //…

Mother razes and wipes, razes and wipes, / While the old oak groans beneath her fingers, // Lodging a thin splinter into her palm when, / Ungloved, she smoothes a…

Every year standing in the pink papered aisle, / pulling out card after flowery card / scripted sentiments such as You were always there / for me and I am…

When I lean into my mother’s soft wool coat, / its closeted shape a new loneliness—she, no longer // seeking shelter from any cool draft—I breathe in / the lingering…