From the book published in 2021, And Don’t Come Back.
She picks up fashionable with both hands wrings it out pins it on the line and dares it to wrinkle She takes attitude and walks it on her leash She mastered bored and haughty in the cradle. She does dramatic from the center of her bones radiating it out through her skin into the air into the sky the rain across the craters on the moon into the indigo
Plenty of people want to copy her but she is young she is ancient she is out of time in all kinds of ways Knowing her is an addiction no one minds acknowledging even as it exhausts and desiccates. There is no map. And all she does is laugh.
From the collection published in 2021, And Don’t Come Back.
Out Again at Night
Ten minutes after midnight I approach the tumbledown house in the humid darkness. The razor-sharp echo of a barking dog magnified by distance he hears me but he is too far away to hear me terrifies and reassures. A candle flickers and flares in an upstairs window The curtain is alight now. Distressing but Not my problem. Creeping across the grass I flinch at another crash of thunder take a tighter hold on my purse. Now the terrace railing. I climb and drop. I dislike the feel of the lichened concrete on my hands. No time to search for a tissue to wipe them clean. A scent of moldering roses – a whole florist shop-full of rotten sweet petals perishing – follows me from the ruined garden. I wish I could hold my nose. A white moth flutters around my head. Annoyed I brush it away and drop my purse. The window above me shatters from the heat of the flames. Glass rains down. I finger-comb it in sparkles from my hair. Where is my purse? I curse, not for the first time tonight, and –
Settling into the pillows I lick my finger and turn the page. The bedside lamp will be on for some hours yet.