I’m the child who scuffles amid brown leaves and bracken buried all winter,

in love with the cold streetlight.

 

“Mulberry Street”

I’m the child who scuffles amid brown leaves and bracken buried all winter,

in love with the cold streetlight.

 

“Mulberry Street”

It is beautiful to have been shown the whole pattern,

like a rug spread out on a woman’s arm,

then to choose the one with small black squares,

so coarse when I bundle it up,

like holding an armful of biting spiders.

I spread it out all over my living room floor

and I sit on it, and I select words.

 

“It if Beautiful”

 

rue the day

rue the bed

rue the worn sheets

rue the stars above my head

 

“White Gold”

I won’t line the pieces up because this isn’t a photo album or a quilt or cooking.

 

“Quilt”

Last night I dreamed my ex put my father’s heart on a plate and I had to eat it.

 

“Quilt”

There was a time I set out to destroy myself the way one would a rival.

 

“The Rival”

me under the headphones

a glittery stranger singing I love you I love you I love you

“Domestic Shorthair”

bring me that blue jay’s feather

bring me that black-eyed Susan

from the dozen at the fence row

bring me the one blessed thing

I can hold in my hands forever

 

“The One Blessed Thing”

This is the book where life is changed and everything is new again

 

“Pulsar Over Hoyt-Schermerhorn”

It’s a book you wear,

each page curled around you

until the paper becomes your skin,

the writing tattoos you make.

 

“Cutting”

Please, she said,

to the florescent lighting

to the orange seat

to the woman reading a paperback.

Oh, please.

“The Rival”