Death and the Mountain
You’re like a mountain made of warmth
That births a river made of touch
Where stones of time have tumbled forth
Catching the light that loves so much.
About Those Apples
One crisp Labor Day
when bands were playing in the distance
and the apples were red on our trees
and my husband had put his hands
They Ask if I’ve Seen the News
like it’s a lost dog, but really it’s impossible
to miss, it’s big the news, yet everyday they
insist on making more stories—floor after
floor, the news is tall, the news towers
Second Coming
Now, I want to address this—
this situation—
if you want to call it that—
I guess it’s a situation
we have going on down in Mexico—
where else, where else—
The Tale of La Llorona
I was born with one eye open / on the back of my head.
Naming Them
Names of number, or of no consequence,
Names held dear, or to the least offence,
Names he’d weighed, had tried, and counted