It’s fitting now to grieve / over a loss of vigor, / common to pack up and leave / for bleached suburbs and bigger / skies, for a clean elsewhere.
If a question rustles in the grasses. / If a hunger hankers after, if a rasping / intonation of a something curling there.
The poem begins at the end of the road, / in mud. It wallows in a time before buds
My mother died twice—the first / was the hardest.
Everyone would be there; / so, I decided to skip that year,
By now you have seen / nothing grows as it should
Try projecting strength. / Don’t be hostile.
These days, I hibernate / like propane caged, highly flammable
In the same pjs for the past two months, / bedroom door closed,
There may have been even slaughter in our own neighborhood
