When fifteen hours of Wagner’s Ring draws to a close, please Siegfried, don’t take the potion making you forget Brünnhilde.
My father puts the milk carton / on the kitchen table. Declares, She bought it—before.
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.
You’ve seen them in the deep sleep / of the season: figures sitting in a garden, / light on their faces as you enter.
I never dreamt of you but of your parts: / my flatland home, the mountains my mother loved, / beach where I could look out and see only not-you.
From Hamra to Bliss St, we’ll list the loves we’ve thrown in the sea.
The sky shakes us / like a shoe with a stone inside. / Even the smallest stone hurts.
If I could have a daughter, / it would be my life goal to make sure she never—not in a million years ever— / confused one kind of touch for another.