Technically, you needed only one eye to take a photo, but you needed the other to see.
Over the next few weeks, a series of strange and unsettling incidents occurred. On more than one night, Glory was jarred from sleep by angry shouts coming from across the street.
Doctors cannot tell you when you’re born / how many pitches your arm contains.
In your next life you will be / birthed in needles / of hoarfrost, your eyes still / in the blue gauze between
You can die in January if you want, / and lots of people do, but this far north, / nobody gets into the ground till spring.
There’s a piano player in the restaurant on the night Zoe tells you she’s pregnant.
“Put on your winter coat and get a warm blanket,” I told my daughter. “We’re going out to look at Christmas lights.”
You’ve seen them in the deep sleep / of the season: figures sitting in a garden, / light on their faces as you enter.
Whenever someone asks me, “So, what do you do?” I like to say, “I am a crash test dummy tech for the National Highway Traffic Safety folks.”
A dead ringer for Josey. She sneezes as she walks into the pharmacy, and I look up from the newspaper I’m not supposed to be reading.