Poetry

My sister left for a few weeks, and the lid lifted / off the stock pot. The house filled with the possibility / of eating bread

For you, that week, we bought peaches like eggs: / twelve in a box, more than we’d had in years: // pink-skinned, white-fleshed…

Shy in my shorts, I pull my body big / and slow through the forest.

I don’t know what will / happen, but let’s not rush home to the / leaking faucet just yet, the ants / hauling cat food behind the walls.

On the island / where we landed, radiation /
lit my father up, illuminated / hidden damage…

Sometimes she read a book, / listening to music. It was as if / if you got too close you might / catch pregnancy.

If I had a time machine, I would tell / you the suffering isn’t worth the fame

For a moment, it lays a white sheet over / the disfigured body of this conflict.

The commanders wish me to say / the language beaten from me. / Each time I speak another sun / drops from the abnormal sky.