To survive this exile, you will need/
to hold court with the moon, store the memory/
of its light in a mason jar for later.

The Sleepy Beauties of Sound

For now it’s guesswork: a territory/
full of unmapped regions,


My husband has been into town./
I can smell the out of doors/
in his hair, on his cheek

Autumn Crickets

As late sun fades/
through the haze/
of their sound


If I forget you/ will you disappear?
The arc of Rilke’s question seemed to spawn/
out of a dustbin/ remnant of a
sheer belief that minds are gods.


the asymmetrically lurching gait/
the austere paradox as of one hand clapping/
a unilateral dialogue.


Lock that tongue to the roof/
of your mouth, the therapist says,/ 
eyeing the trach 

The Oncologist

Do you have an appetite? No. / Are you anxious? Yes. / Irritable? Yes.