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My daughter dropped the birthday / watch I gave her far away, in the lake.

How we disoriented / each other within the measure

I have left the door open so that I can watch / this slow opening of tiny leaves still, like luna moths

her tired voice / graveling down, // her voice a well

someone never here left / a loaf of bread, warm, as if fresh baked

Five small, similar failures, / the handwriting innocent and terrible.

She shuffles through the morning kitchen / on the way to her back-porch cigarette.

First of all, lady, he wasn’t born dead. He lived. He lived.

then the touch of a nurse’s hand, a voice asking what faith I profess

My neighbor looked at me quizzically, and I felt it again: a twinge of guilt for taking comfort in the global health crisis.

By the time I shut off the husband’s alarm, boil water, mix up the baby’s bottle, and empty my bladder, the baby’s room is suspiciously quiet.