More on: Poetry

I am my parents’ first book.

let pass another word / of love impossible submerged.

Two figures, one of them kneeling, / have mastered the washing machine.

Brutish tongue in both; I’ve caught / myself as a wildness.

In tender protest, / my world is another color.

I am just about / ninety percent apple at this point—all out // of baskets and stuck on a riverbank smack-dab / in the middle of orchard country.

I mean I need to love with the love that is milk before the pitcher / shatters

All those promises. / Every teardrop wiped away… / Insufficient, Lord.

A realization with the acrid smell / of distant fires.