their stubby fingers trace
the zippers
of my C-section scars
I tell them they are my seahorse tots
sprung from my belly slits

There’s scent of
blood in the barn
where someone
hung my prize
hog upside down

My earliest memory is of crawling to the edge of a cliff
and seeing nothing but pink and blue clouds beneath me
spreading so thick and solid they looked capable of holding me.

In college, I stole shrimp and celery for Mother’s Day. A grocer asked if I paid for the groceries in my bag. “Yes,” I lied.

The warm water
like fingers
gently kneading
my knots of sorrow

Every boy and girl can toss a knee-buckler for a strike on a 3-2 count, hit in the clutch, and launch fastballs beyond the city borders with an Adirondack Ash

The liquor store
Was as dark as Aladdin’s cave
And you could hear the hum
Of the many machines
That cooled down the Cokes

surrender your wings
– be more dandelion

there’s no telling where
a beneficial wind may blow

now, here, the Italian woman
shakes the sheet before hanging it
over her high railing,
and a few drops reach me
in the street below. She calls down
an apology

winedrunk on the balcony,
on a late night video call
with a couple friends
I haven’t seen
lately, and against whom I can’t
pace my drinks.