Poetry
Make for the moment / the moon in its place / And lie quickly beneath to remember.
Beside the door, / a pair of shoes, an umbrella, your black coat, things in minutes / you will no longer need
There will be a worse day. He will live / long enough to not recognize me at all, / and I sense it drawing nearer…
You toss a pale bagel onto his plate, / do some hand-waving around / the problem of gravity.
the fields to silver, mown paths / like rivers of first-ice—every / blade of grass scattering light
I kept them all. The poems, I mean. When I / tried to tell your mother, she’d leaned in…
Two months into her illness, Pat / lay in pain, nearly immobile, / nourished by pills and liquids, / no appetite even for favorite foods—
My mother knows there are three / ways to be clean: to take a mess / that’s there and cover it…