Poetry

I want him to see / depth is not something bodies grasp, but an art our minds develop // to gauge love’s slap.

shares a creature’s pain / raw red sorrow

I am in this basement throwing bar stools.

by which I don’t mean just the touch / (the rasp of a voice is a thing I love)

a girl is Shiva drinking ocean poison

how now, sweetmeat, will you eat us too …

I can’t scrub away / the shadows.

The word beloved belongs to him.

I try to decode the doctor’s words / across a paper curtain. She wishes / I was not awake.

Grief is no stranger. I know / what it is to long for someone / you loved fiercely.

my son stoops / until his mouth is level with the fresh-fallen // snow, and there he parts his lips