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Scars

Sometimes in sunlight the scar shines, skin smooth and tight.

Secret Papers

The lock surrendered, after a short struggle, to the poker.

Self-Portrait as a Shadowbox

A family altar stuffed with dead family hanging now above the TV.

Shallow Waters

He finds the note taped to the lid of the toilet: “There’s someone else.”

She Wasn’t Soft

“Hey, babe,” he said, breathing into the phone like a sex maniac.

Sheath, Erosion

Summer’s erosion has begun, all that taking the waves from shore.

Shelf Space

I read cookbooks the way I do poetry, with a willingness to be transported.

Signaling

In high school I walked around with a beat-up copy of Kafka’s stories.

Silas

Out by the road was her son standing without a stitch of clothing.

Silence

Christopher Woods

Silence Retreat

It is this—what you hear when you stop listening—that counts.

Sledding

The thing was, I didn’t care what I ate in front of a woman. Every day, I told her things I would have been too embarrassed to tell anyone else.

Sleep Apnea

I dream of watching my grandfather stagger home through the snow.

Sleepy

Hearing the baby’s cry, Varka finds the enemy who is crushing her heart.

Slow Dance

Your hands along her spine. Her hips unfolding like a cotton napkin.

Smoke Bushes

I bought two for my wedding, planted them in pots on the patio by the pond.

Solo Notes

This has been a good day. First the milestone of getting to page 300.

Solstice Litany

I was nineteen and mentally infirm when I saw the prophet Isaiah.

Something Irrevocable

My father left me in the car while he was grabbing one for the road.

Something Lost

Mr. Holt had grown old since Beverly last saw him. He looked weary.

Somewhere with a Sigh

Does he not see our likeness? Fursten seemed to see nothing.

Song

Beached on the kingdom I learned to swim with my eyes closed.

Song of the Old Mother

Their days go over in idleness, and they sigh if the wind but lift a tress.

Sonoran Song and Other Poems

For eight weeks no one heard my voice for eight weeks no one slept.

Standards

He grabbed me, groped for my hips, kissing me, smelling my hair.

Staph

Her skin was bruised under her eyes, purple like the swollen toe.

Stepfather

Maybe this was one thing in his life he had done right, or so he hoped.

Stitches

The girl I was could not have imagined the woman I grew up to become.

Straight Home

“Mind you come straight home,” Mrs. Heywood always says.

Strangers

It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.