Standing in the stairwell, studying her imitation of O’Keeffe, he said, “You could’ve been an artist.” “I am,” she said.

at the amusement park, by the coasters– disappeared into the sticky, sweet, peopled heat– to teach me not to lead

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuckity. fuck. fuck. They overturned Roe v. Wade. They overturned Roe v. Wade. Is anyone surprised?

A toddler slapped my daughter because she didn’t want his hug and his mother shrugged, said, “Boys will be boys.”

rain on the window and Nat King Cole– a curling cabernet, a dog-eared paperback, and your feet entwined with mine

Everybody has formative texts. Mine were the King James Bible, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, and The Shining— explains everything.

Having been cut off, cut out, disowned, and left dangling like a misplaced modifier, she learned the art of editing.

These leaves like those leaves– and I am 12 years old again and on a horse, head thrown back–hello.

nirvana dead raccoon’s tail dead bee purple flowers yellow daisies shaded lane thickening warmth crickets, dog shit, tall grass and whitman

What if there is so little love left that we don’t recognize it anymore? My heart stands, a loaded wound. Loaded Gun – Emily Dickinson …