We Have Gotten So Good At Dying
A sad memento is sad so long
as it’s
the officiant of girlhood—the body its own
disengaged worship. How to chronicle...
Silver Sage
En route to Montecatini-Terme, Federica asks us,
jet-lagged and bleary eyed, if we know how to spot
the olive trees
speckled along the sloping countryside.
Laura’s voice...
The Kids Don’t Want Our Stuff
Throw away your antique chair, crushedvelvet cradling grandma’s slightskeleton like a pearl—Youbalanced carefullyon her ancient unbendingknees. Give awaythe bric-a-brac,...
Middle Age
Suddenly this hunger.The yard’s river
birch finally empties itselfof summer’s grief
when the night’s crescentmoon swallows
a small piece of the pallidred sky.
Before the fall,regret is...
