More on: Poetry

They are guilt advancing in disguise; / they are the very finest jewels of guilt.

to us / the house / and its broken silhouette returned / partly possessed:

Everyone in the family insists / the bones are ours. Nurses fuss and refuse at first, / / until we threaten a lawyer.

Like you, I’m on a journey, though where I’m going / changes with each moment.

The snake contorts and / stiffens grapples for a foothold Its body / becomes letters scrawled in shingled light

On my prow, the dove; / from my brow, every animal paired.

At three, I saw the shade of living light. / At eight, I was enclosed as an oblate. / The universe is an egg, I said, / and the nuns promoted me.

A poem for lost love. “If I wash myself / where will you go?”

You are not here. / Just this precious, flawed body, briefly home / to your soul.

Hunger is what drives, / unloveliest of urges, most / appealing to the gaping grave.