Waxwing, he said. / Dad said. / At the window. / In the kitchen. / Mom came running. / My spoon hung / in my Cheerios. / He said it with such urgency. / He was not, / is not, an urgent man. / What is a waxwing? / I thought it was some new…

I found a rainbow inside you, Mr. Pig, cutting pieces very thin. I put a few slices on white bread where I could see the colors better. Then I ate you— consumed the rainbow, turned it into clouds, like shale, that rain dust and hair. The dust is dandruff— it combusts through the atmosphere. Not…

Off the bus from school, / the picture window’s curtain is drawn. / So, you’re there on the couch. / I can hear the sound of soft moaning / before I go in. Say: I’m home. Hello. Goodbye. Ask: Can I tell you that I’m sick, / because sick / is what you are? /…

Ask: When mother says wound / is it code for another one? / Say: I can’t even bring myself / to say the word. / I say injury. / Ask: Is wound the tear / that won’t ever really heal? / What’s missing now? Say: Another / piece. Another bandage / to cover over. /…