Your wedding day was a hurricane; your bride in red was like a kiss on
on the dry prairie dirt. You actually never told me the story of how it went.
The wedding, I mean. In fact, you never told me about how you chose
a DJ, or if the flowers glistened in the sunlight. I don't think you've ever
told me about the places you would love to see, either, or the...
HOW NOT TO SPILL
Dad has creases on his hands so thick they could split with a
poke. He gestures for me to try so I do. His skin bends on a
hinge and out spills every good and bad thing: cattails from our
driveway in Peace River, oil underground, rocks too smooth to
be useful. It washes out the floor so I watch and wade in.
Mom would never spill her...
When I Become You
I'd like to close the distance between us:
where you end, where I begin,
but your skin stops me,
I can't find my way in.
If I could, I'd press every bit of me
until I've slipped inside,
your skin, our tent.
I want to breathe through your mouth.
If I could just slip...
FROM THE WINDOW OF MY HOME-TOWN HOTEL
On the lee slope of the small coastal mountain
which conceals the sun the first hour after its rising,
in the dry, steep ravines, the live
mist of the heat is seething like dust
left over from an earlier world.
A crow with a swimmer's shoulders works
the air. And a little bird flies up into a
tree and closes its wings, like a...
Mantra of No Return
my mother occupies the passenger seat. my brother and i
stick in the back.
the radio babbles and sings between us. she is estranged, returning
and we are revenants to a place inside a narration contrived
to read like non-fiction, a continuous telling since one