Poetry

You are no longer Dorothy. / You are firmly Auntie Em.

I am a channel marking / a way

On the screen, flight 175 / and the South Tower on fire.

There is no Mother, a man said

sex comes and goes, a light / switched on and off

At the red light / I can see inside

The street signs / appear and disappear / one diagnosis at a time.

Her song was the black throat of the chickadee, / hopping from limb to limb

I do not want you to be brave, my son. / Not in the way of men

my own grief / left by the door like an umbrella

the pain was inherited, like / consignment howls