Scars, Tears, and Wounds Like Weapons: The Poetry

The realtor calls it waterfront. The water is in the kitchen. We sleep upstairs. We've always slept upstairs. The first floor belongs to the crabs...

The chimneys stand like ribs now. The river stopped years ago. Someone is still whistling somewhere a tune that's forgotten what it was for. There...

I found a bone in the yard last week that fit my hand too well. I told myself: coincidence. I told myself: the world is full of things shaped like us...

I asked my daughter what she was waving at through the window, and she said, the man in the field. There is no man in the field. There is only the...

My son has rules for bedtime. I thought he made them up— the way children do. Games that only make sense to them. But he was serious. So serious it...