after Rose-Lynn Fisher’s “after goodbye” from The Topography of Tears like stitches like scratches like scars on the skin like crossroads littered like pavement
The morning snow was all wrong, the way it spun—gray, almost dry, rattled against the eaves, old wraith fingers rapping, tapping to wake
Reviewed by Susan Azar Porterfield Rhyme makes things true: If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit. Somewhere in our brains, in our vibrating