A thin, naked
branch scraping
her lacquered nails down
and up the bedroom
window like a pointless
backscratch reminds
me we are the same
star stuff the same
sorrow the same
sackcloth of bones
and wails the same
hunger and heat
we hide from
the one
who says,
“You know we love you. Right?”
…
Alone in her bedroom a young mother shouts,
“Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!” and smirks,
those teeth, front-gapped,
those eyes, dark and empty—
on the walnut nightstand sits
a drained bottle of bourbon,
beneath it an oval
burn mark the size of a
child’s scabbed knee.
…
By the pond a peeper
announces the arrival of
spring, his biology
unhiding a loin-longing
he cannot escape.
…
