…in a sanatorium or a jail cell. It doesn't much matter which. But,
for now, she’ll settle for a Greyhound. The grosser the better.

At Nuremberg, Jackson / revealed one human head, / severed, nameless, / shriveled beyond / a mother's recognition.

skin flakes rest in my lap, hands crossed, fingers / twisted left and right and up and forward but never down

Vines weave through the trail along wild raspberry and thorn, tiger lilies, ironweed, pinwheel-daisies and complaints afoot…

Bruises, scars, and gaping wounds / mar the walls of my parent's kitchen / at various stages of healing.

June— / In Central Valley, CA, a migrant farmworker / rises before the sun.

The new assistant principal's email signature / distracts me from whatever announcement. / An optimism so aggressive / as to insist on happiness.

There was no poverty. Only a honey farm / The bees drink and drip like an ocean. They're fleecing us, Moon, / what are we to do?

i plucked patience / off a tree long ago / shoved its gritty pit / inside my pocket

I don't recognize any of the food on the counter. My mother points at a table at the center of the room, tells me to wait. I recognize bread.

It all happened mighty fast. / We got pregnant in Europe in April / and by August we'd gotten married / found new jobs, sold our houses and / packed up all our stuff.

City and County of Denver trash cans / Thursday morning line the alley driveways. / City drivers barely miss me racing / to work cross-walking.

Every morning, a new cut. / Every morning, the taste // of blood in my mouth. The thought / that something inside me has split.

to teach me how to clean my ears, / my mother gave me a / healthy lie.

We drove five hours trying to get to wilderness. After two on road, she leant over and pushed the wheel until I stopped fighting.

You slip out of your transparent / Front door in your day suit, / Reach the sidewalk at rather much / The same time as everyone else

My house died yesterday. The worst part, I was there— / ​There when its face had crumpled.

She's been here for years / but yesterday, I heard she might / have told me a lie.

I have a rage stroke / waiting for the electrician: / I whip up and down / the shotgun house / also expecting Lowes / to call

In the afternoon, high above, winter sparrows / tear at thick white clouds with their beaks / & call