Poetry

—much like David Fincher, famous for torturinghis film sets with shot after shot after shot,who may be a strange name to invokehere on this reverent occasion of love,known as he is for such romantic filmsas Fight Club, Zodiac, and Girlwith the Dragon Tattoo, whenin truth, there isn’t anything to be learnedabout commitment that a good …

At the end of the memory, you forgot to close the door. You hear the neighborhood children playing hide-and-go-seek outside in the yard, calling Come out, come out, as if still looking for you. But where are you now? Is this your house? Did you place the cherries on the counter? Is that blood or …

I used to take photos of everything because I couldn’t remember. I took photos of the first crocus of spring, clasped hands and snow on eyelashes, a dog on the street with sad eyes. One night, I held my phone up to a Blood Moon and took photo after photo, all of them wrong. We’re …

of a gourmet grocer in a neighborhood you used to live in, oranges approaching,protein bars around the corner, where you left them. But from what deep well of emotion does your elation on the escalator source? You ate protein barsbecause you were so, so poor. It’s not time travel; not being reminded of something you …

II Home is always calling. Singing with the mouth of all things I have taken for granted. What I want to erasefrom the past is pain. But how else will future learn the taste of joy? First, I tune my ears to the soundof water tumbling from a hillside, and the nimble bird, a hammerkop, …

Everything softened, edgeless, peacefully geometric:the fence posts wearing elbows of white, the pool cover snow-smothered, the bird feeder topped with a delicate hat,no birds attempting a December refueling.The truth—it was always the squirrels who ate best, plumping themselves on what they stole. I’ve seen them hurtle their tight little bodiesfrom my shingles, latching to the …

What burnsand flowers, he moves toward. His hand across skies, hovers above thorned roses, darting bees. So much insidepounding to break out. On the porch, leaves take off, tomatoes ask for water, he asks me for nothing. Careful, Brendan. He bends to petals, reaches into stamens, stands stillamong the flit of wings, his face against …

The green shatter, a new flame growing from this crater * as skiesburned. You arrived, we were *made, forged and braided. Always bound by *the flare: our hole torn in space, scorched petals tipped * silver. Kneelingclose, we cup our hands, pour rain on *smoke, scatter your crystal— and the earth lights us.

What if no one besides my motherwants to be my mother—I don’t resent her for answeringthat she would not do it over.We were standing by the electric stove,over fried rice or spaghetti pancakes.Some things did not come easilybetween us. Not touch, no longerthe grip of her skirt tight in my fistclimbing the stairs into darknessafter …