Poetry

A finger so tender 
the diminishing coneflower’s center shocks        
a needle

up through reaching skin

I pull down my black dress 
& feed my child. 

And when the rains came 
   like lean wolves 

we were ready.

The white slap of the moon after hail gone through
ivy to silver April’s first green blades: There I listened 

Cézanne doesn’t paint what he sees.
His apples are orange.

I am more than the world you asked me to be— 

Bow to the peaches heavy and timeless, wrapped in sheets of cool.

My daughter throws up once or twice a day opening mouth then hands as if to pour out what was once clenched. Throws up pillows, backpacks, and refrigerators. Builds a version of our cat from pretend vomit, builds a version of our kitchen. I...

Took a series of self-portraits on my bed: one hand over my right eye then left as if to mimic another’s gaze.

They call it kneading / as in dough or massage, this act // of pawing at my bathrobe / by kittens.