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I’d wager a cicada is fond of a high note on a synthesizer.

She had not anticipated that the nightstands would be an issue.

I’d make a tub of mud to keep live crabs. I’d refill it daily.

Music that tells of how things stand in the troubled world you now have.

Teams spend days surveying the damage and label me a mess.

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.

At nineteen you were six-foot-two. At ninety-one you will be two-foot-six.

It’s cruel to watch my edges crystallize and reflect light.

Navigating the trailer park at night felt like a raid on a strange village.

“My brother’s last words to me were about you. Did you know that?”

It’s true, I killed my husband. I had my reasons. He was a hunter on the trail.

The end’s already in motion, the end was starting this whole time.

She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.

my grandparents lay in a room listening to their legs rub together

Mostly, though, you could turn them in your hand, hold them to your nose.

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.

Today is my favorite kind of day. Night opens, light concedes.

Having a sister or a friend is like sitting at night in a lighted house.

Relief workers tore swaths of insulation from the rafters of the house.

Is it that he is too tired or too afraid to blink into the oil of his own machine?

Coil of metal, coin of wood, two-headed and soft in the middle.

Eros, myth, life, and literature in brilliant paintings by Lincoln Perry.

We are each other’s as surely as song stitches breath to air.

Take some cherry tomatoes, I say when the moon rises over the pine.

I hand in my form. I wonder if the doctor with the needles will laugh at me.

Mother had always told me that everybody loves a self-absorbed ass.

A man drunk on the damage he made to a boy’s young mouth.

In its shadow, our mislaid secrets cascade down around us.

Order and gardens. Penelope liked things to grow just as they would.