Amy’s brave wise cracks
Every word snaps
Because her mouth forms the sound before it emerges
Knifes in
Warbles out

Grandma waters her lilies,
but it’s the end of November,
and the flowers wither and die
in front of us.

I gasp for air; clutch the rancid dirt above,
Ignoring hands outstretched to alleviate my futile struggle with their love.
This ensures the sands of time will go with unrest,
I have shot down every single dove.
For the look on their faces disgusts me, hands gleaming with sweat.

he had his kids with him
two sons
it was a school day
but they weren’t in uniform
and they waited with him
for fucking hours
telling him “good swing, dad”
or “lead with the left”
as he showed them his jabs

The goat milk in the fridge tastes so fresh I suck
the flavor from my gums after swallowing- sweet bachata
plays from the radio. The lights are out again but no one has noticed,
with the way the río holds the sun and brings it right in our faces.

I fumbled with the fuse of forgiveness next to the list of people you
harmed where the ink is red & bright.

Brooklyn Center, a suburb
of Minneapolis. Minneapolis,
not a bridge

but a city of sighs.

the boy wanted to want // the girl coveted his cocoon //
how he morphed into anything // she had a hunger for
any word that she could chew through // right there //

When I squirm over the mattress
the overhead lighting like an unforgiving
God, I tell myself, Sleep
on your side so you don’t choke on your own
puke.

When the woman with the revolver tattoo approached, he cawed at the sparrows scattered among the dirt. They took to the sky and spread like ashes blown by the wind. The woman watched as they flew higher and higher toward the Moon.

Go ahead, lower the lid—
pin darkness on top of me,
its breath hot on my face—
an unlit cigarette on my lips
for what comes after.

but I get to decide where this poem goes
how it moves, what it makes

it goes to where we met in the contra line
you grinned when I asked if you like flourishes

His feelings had never been trampled
along the way - until he confessed to me
that they had. It was a secret only for me.

You’ve nowhere to
go but the store, nothing to share except
stories of when we wove tales, went places,
the world an oyster left on the counter
to rot.

my grandmother believes
in red blood flowers
each woman has at least one
many survive many do not
I had no idea what this meant
until now

It’s always this way—

not exactly always—
it’s been only three years
since he died. These crocus men with
ten-dollar haircuts

The young man does not get up, but his eyes do. They catapult
into the ceiling, stones thrown & clanking down from the paint
chipped interior—inside the father is a horrible blankness. There is
a mechanicalness about him. Bionic even.