More on: Poetry

Never did I think to thank whoever painted them— / give me horses, and I’ll thank the horses.

This earth, our only / This four cornered honeycomb / Flooded with nectar

how much labor, / exactly, to prepare a place adequate for God?

imagine a sleeping God / dreaming springtime: the dirt / coughing up its green, the old, / vacant throat reversing its / swallow

I had heard of men like these, their fingers / striking the valves to yield the word of God.

The first pregnancy: “my belly growing big, for what? / no one can tell me what’s going on. / nausea I don’t understand, weeping / for hormones with no name.

At night they slept in the car / like angels thrown against a tree.

We downed ginger beer and punch; drank / in our parents’ fear of standing out— / never Boston nor Brahmin enough.

I guess having a sister is about
more than just a body.

never mind
the fickleness of the light
here, the damp that would

a more flimsily
rooted loveliness
drown.