Oh, sky that certain clear cold blue, we go/back. We are washing dishes here/suds between our fingers. Indoor. But fear/places us in the car. Plays the announcers/voice crumbling like block towers. Fall.

I/wander off to/a carnival where/madmen think/away strange/and unimaginable/things, like becoming/small as a grain/of salt, disappearing,/almost invisible.

Are you stepping onto the rungs? Clenching/cold mettle in your hands?/Remember this. The last step/is hardest, as if you didn’t know.

This is our Serbia. This
Is our Syria. This is our neo-
Nazi superiority. This
Is our Selma, our Watts, our Boston.

You’ve been winning the chalking and charcoal wars
against acne—so you hope your face is inert and in the clear
when Miz Beanson names CeeCee Irons as your lab partner.

Burgundy, the colour of cherries
we got at the Farmer’s market in Germany-
We paid for strawberries; the cherries came free.
They tasted sweeter.

Every flower that catches sight of you
Begins to bloom against the season

Heavy equipment, near River,
made a developer’s dream reality.
The woods’ edge a slope,
in brush, feeling stings, swatting bees.

The plastic cup knocked over by the wind
startles you in mid-thought. It held
ashes that scatter over the parquet floor.
No need to move, the nerves settle on
their own oftentimes, every little jerk
and shake, the trembling lips and ears.

“Shut the fuck up!” I say. She’s alphabetizing all my slights. I threaten to rip her cord out of the wall. Order her to dial my husband’s mobile. She hovers there glowing purple. Like the color of kings or a plastic plum.  “Echo? Echo? Echo!?” I yell. Then, restart her