Museum: a depository of grief displayed aesthetically; I carry the mishaps of things I want to forget like the fragments…
we say the knife is dead, or the mouth of the knife is dead because the death of the mouth…
It must be that imagination has an expiration date. My grandmother will never change the amount of sugar in…
I wake to another dream of ripening Becoming perfectly palatable For all who want to eat me whole. When I…
Say it straight. Say how the grasses wave you along your path. How the small nod of the field mouse…
My father says, with a laugh, I don’t see color. He doesn’t say it while looking at me.
sound of shattered glass whiplashed mother in her long dress muscles tightened one summer night
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