Poetry
Each time something went missing—
the photo album of my first
year, postcard from a forgotten friend…
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Bloodstains left / on the sidewalk / Body bags, / Yellow tape, / Why don’t you think about the consequences / You’re going to have to face?
The smell is like nothing else. / Sickeningly sweet and kind of smoky, / like something burning and rotting at the same time, / it filled my father’s hospital room / and stuck to our clothes and nostrils / long after he died.
First open the windows and empty the garbage.
Next start the laundry, lights and darks.
Strip the bed, wash sheets, pillowcases,
mattress and quilt covers, mats and towels.
These things happen. There’s nothing
beautiful about it. She gave up her breasts
two years ago, but the cancer returned, pushing
through the sutures, the larval wasp consuming