When they told me he was going, I thought, I will never be loved like this again, and I am only twenty-two.
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The tongue is powerful—it is both body & voice, past & future, self & monster.
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My mother’s mother’s language is the music of canefields.
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I wanted to plant a garden with her, but her winter was my spring & none of the days moved slowly enough to catch.
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My best mistakes could hear me for what I was. Through a stereo, over a headrest, I was so seen, so possible.
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We need to talk about this time of day—half dawn—when the ethereal is that gasp between defibrillator compressions.
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When she was younger, my grandmother danced cour for a local ballet company.
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I meant melody & strings, rhapsody & joy. Like wall barley, crumbling naked at a touch. An open sky.
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I hear melancholy in it as well as contentment, but different listeners will hear different things.
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I have stumbled into so many of the loves in my life.
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