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His thoughts swirl around him. Maybe women aren’t women anymore.

On Christmas Day, we lost one of our great advocates for poetry.

I would slip the hook under the sow’s chin, hold my breath, and pull.

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens her first rose

I know what my promises are worth, know the worth of material things.

This summer I mothered my brother’s death; I brothered my mother’s cancer. My brother and mother died this summer, two of seven billion.

Room painted off-white, so the death rattle can lean off the wall.

He could smell the bear’s breath, feel the hot huff against his ear.

Emil was busy applying his anger therapy, and it was working.

Sometimes the old men held their fishing poles like divinations.

Maybe this was one thing in his life he had done right, or so he hoped.

My cry for the first time fastened garlands of hope to the roof.

Oh brother, the eye of the needle is shaking the weather awake.

Death will come for us so fast we will never be able to outrun it.

The boy imagined his dead grandfather haunting the world.

It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.

My sister’s fever wasn’t gone at all, but dazzling—suspended over us.

Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.

The shadow carves the hours while the Latin inscribes

She had seen him take the crop to a girl for doing nothing at all.

There was a fish. And then there was the consciousness of robots.

She was thinking about what she would say when the time came.

They need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.

Window widows we were once, like lonely oil spilled on sullied beaches.

No, you may not walk there. No, you may not stand on that. He is not here.

I thought that proved he blamed me. I thought they all did.

My children, children, remember to let me go, delete my number.

I ask that now I be allowed to see the one my vision has been denied.

The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.