Where did you go
when I had my back turned
and my hands in the sink,
washing the dishes we dirtied
on this evening of excess,
and you said my soup made your groin
ache and your chin tremble, and
I leaned forward, laughing,
and put my hand on your arm,
then I stood to collect the plates,
stacking them up my arm like
a row of buttons, and you remained
seated until halfway through washing the pile
of dishes, I was alone again, and my
gut turned cold and mean and began to
eat itself for spite because I realized
I had just dined on soup from a can
and you were never there at all.

To keep the sweet bird
that flutters in my breast
at small things

from forever turning its head
to the softness
beneath its wing.

The photo I lost
is black and white,
has a crease from side to side
and odd, scalloped edges.
Below the crease are my father’s
skinny ankles and below them,
his slippers.
He sits on the couch and stares
at something out of sight
in his bathrobe late at night with me,
the last of seven,
tucked into the crook of his arm.
I look strange, almost deformed,
as I crane my neck,
trying to look into his face.

The daisies down
behind the barn
have all their
petals gone.

Perhaps you’ll think
me foolish but I picked
the bare stems
anyway.