Slim, unwrinkled, with lustrous hair, / we were photographed / in all our various states…

Corners of a mouth pull wide under hard light, / skin thinning where it’s asked to hold…

When my new therapist asks me where / I think the hurt lives, I take seven seconds / to decide which answer will sound cooperative…

I am wondering where is the beauty in this place / The lights are somehow both bright and dim…

1 moment before my eyes are guided open by a pinch of light— / my brain shifts from imaginatory to cerebral…

The coordinator asked for his name. "Raymond," Dad said. Which were right. Then he told her he’d been a carpenter all his life. Which weren't…

The barber asks, “When was the last time you had your hair cut, sir?”

Overnight, we’d fallen into another world, one where the Earth wasn’t in space anymore, but in a man’s house…

I was twelve when words became a shelter, / a room no one could evict me from.

The little sore had reopened and it was bleeding.…

Suburban drudgery to the head I come untethered / from the birthing plane…

say i’m foul—my mother was too / the grave keeps good records…

If night is now, I will close my eyes / and wake into last year before you died…

Through trial and error / we've come up with a system / for seeing each other. // It goes like this:

Spring is the orange rows of tiger lilies outside my mother’s kitchen window…

It started when you fell asleep on the chaise lounge on your patio after spending the night in the hospital…

What was he thinking / When he placed the lightbulb // In the space between his molars? / He bit down, jaw clicking…

What proof can I give that I cannot work, / that my very brain is bruised? // Shall I be unborn?

Don’t cry. You cannot cry now. Your mother can. Your sister can. You need to be their floor, their walls, and their ceiling. Don’t cry.

What was my texture, you asked, as if I’ve felt / myself up, which no one confesses / to in public. My texture was diamond. A girl’s best / friend wasn’t shiny, but Teflon.