Poem that Begins on a Staircase

Night’s kinship behind me now,

the bed’s dream-shaken,

desolate sheets.

Out the window, a blithe blue sky

I traded for all those gales.

And morning rising up the stairs

like smoke from a low fire—

news of other rooms

and longitudes.

Police Swarm Hostage Sites Killing Gunmen.

Woman Killed by Truck

Carrying Bees. Mom, did you know

we’re out of milk again. The kitchen now—

the watched pot,

the hand that feeds. The children

are older, have unraveled

from my side. And my love,

always brittle anyway, breaking

where it should bear

weight. Still,

every morning I startle

at their flight,

their bright, unworried departures.

Door to the jagged world

open wide, and their bodies

clinking through it

like the day’s loose change.