Letters can line the catbox, or (catless?) compost— where every last promise shape-shifts to useful mush. Miniature painting from Iran – couldn’t its inlaid frame hold up the leg of that abandoned coffee table? Make a snow-dome for your desk,
Take it as imperative, the must assumed. Email often, every evening, even after just to say hey, or be forsaken. Surely there are instructions. Take notes on cue cards – now cut and cue to you in the Yaris driving
Wish not everything had to be so goddamn true, all the time. Wish for an open space for a lie, a gap in the teeth of my unlocked mouth. Wish feminism hadn’t given up on itself, eaten its young, sent
Glacial irritations from centuries of living together: the way you let the tap run while brushing your teeth, indiscreet toss of a tuna can, flushed tampon. All these could be forgiven – is it a necessity that love dries up?
First, the maple trees refuse to cooperate. They withhold seed keys and sap, a protest action against sour air, bitter rain. The oldest have emphysema, their clogged lungs collapse against a push of wind. The newly planted suffer the ache