Thirty miles south of Dallas the air smells of ozone and water. Thunderheads on the horizon in shades of indigo.
A finger so tender the diminishing coneflower’s center shocks a needle
up through reaching skin
I pull down my black dress & feed my child.
And when the rains came like lean wolves
we were ready.
The white slap of the moon after hail gone throughivy to silver April’s first green blades: There I listened
Cézanne doesn’t paint what he sees.His apples are orange.
I am more than the world you asked me to be—
Bow to the peaches heavy and timeless, wrapped in sheets of cool.
My daughter throws up once or twice a day opening mouth then hands as if to pour out what was once clenched. Throws up pillows, backpacks, and refrigerators. Builds a version of our cat from pretend vomit, builds a version of our kitchen. I...
Took a series of self-portraits on my bed: one hand over my right eye then left as if to mimic another’s gaze.
