We burn his photo under the tree. My friend, I trust her witchcraft.
No wonder songs are so full of denial. And what
did you do about that?
My fifteenth summer, I poured tears from two earthen pitchers and half the tears fell on dry ground and the other half spilled into the lake where the ripples spread like whispers in empty echo chambers.
I climbed the beanstalk, up and up, to the realm
Of pendulous curtains.
What made me want him? That supple, brutal kingsnake of a boy, wine-lipped and longhaired.
You resemble an angel created in a landfill.
Father is the name for what guards the front door. The world outside is full of noise. A truck, a lawnmower, a dog, and then another.
In Pompeii we didn’t distinguish rats