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Rounds

Brassy bullets fell against the floral comforter like little candies.

Safe Harbor

Maybe older Natives have more trauma than younger ones.

Savages

The new generation doesn’t play war, which is a shame; they text.

Saved

By the end of my trip to St. Thomas, I had discovered a reason to live.

Saving Just the Real

When I was born I saw death devour the birth of something.

Savior Games

When we move together in the dark I can almost get to him but I turn back.

Sea Mud

Her body too, a mystery in motion. But does she own her body?

Second Gratitude

I measured your breath with my breath, your foot with my thumb.

Secret and Suggestion in Peter Taylor’s “Allegiance”

Peter Taylor’s stories are jigsaw puzzles of nuance and suggestion.

Sent

It seemed that someone had died, but really it was part of us.

September 2001, New York City

A week later, I said to a friend: I don’t think I could ever write about it.

She Would Say

I love you to distraction, she would say. I love you beyond love.

She’s the Bomb

This is the worst moment of her life, maybe of anybody’s life, ever.

Shorn

The only person I’d seen naked was my mother the night she died.

Silent Night

Like a god I shook their tiny worlds, terrible but ineffectual storms.

Six Months after My Father’s Death

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Drowning people will do anything for air.

Sky Tumbling Down

The clearest memory was when his father shot a grizzly.

Skylight

Now I’m no longer the buzzards glooming over the mango tree.

Sled

My ups and downs never stop on the hump we call a hill behind the house.

Snapshots of My Brother

We’re all trying, in our own ways, to parse what we may have done wrong.

Song of the Old Mother

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

Sounding

This summer I mothered my brother’s death; I brothered my mother’s cancer. My brother and mother died this summer, two of seven billion.

Staph

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

Stealing Time

Maybe all of it was possible. Maybe it all could work out.

Still Life with Peeved Madonna

You remind me of lizards birthed in an outhouse by an ogre or a loon.

Straight Home

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

Summer

Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.

Summer Fever

The horror of the waste appalls me. This beauty. This habitation of dream.

Superhero

Cassandra blared Puccini and Eminem so she would not pray.

Sweet Girl and Other Poems

A man jostles my stride to the street, no shoulder on which to move.