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
They say the sharks came early/ and stayed late, unwanted houseguests
You didn’t come to bed until morning/ You opened and closed doors all night/ while I slept in the ambient soot
The old man/ plies his trade, his wages earned: a clean boat./ Is labor prayer?
As I walked to Lake Divine, I remembered I’d forgotten/ To fill my pockets with rocks. I’m the type who forgets
Boy, he said, you got to fill a graveyard/ before you know this business
Would that our breasts were like oysters/ Briny, lustrous. Maybe not filter feeders,