Poetry
I’ve given away the black Samsonite suitcase/
that for thirty-five years enfolded my suits/
like a wallet
These poems are antic, lustrous, vital engagements with the tangible artifacts of aging, illness, and the promise of dying
Dey discovered it in dird grade / whenever we practiced counting / money, candy, or people / I kept saying dirty, dirty—
When I call my mother on Mothers Day/
I thank her again for making me, and for/
lamb chops, for smocked dresses,
Writing poems on antidepressants/
is hard. You can appreciate the difficulty/
by reading the previous two lines.
This is the house of Anopheles/
in the city of malaria/
that infects 500 million souls a year
