Poetry

St. Stephen’s Day: home unsettled, 
a rupture, and here the ruched 
branch has turned itself outward,

its soft, bright innards held up 
along the path. At first, a golden

What if each time
you caused pain
a small, round stone
was put in your pocket
pebbles for inducing
self-doubt

I wish we were living
a story of desire, but
I don’t feel Odysseus 
beating out his tale
of longing at the oars