[prose poem]A little genesis, please. It’s the ink, Lord. It feels like you forgot to make the ink make the words. Let it not
It falls from my binder, cherry crayon streaks ripen in sun, LOVE RILEY— a valentine from my son, three weeks before he died, cutout
you slipped into your flesh suit, its rosy padding, and zipped it up, little latch throbbing in your throat? A slide of light, sip
Swim on, beached beauty, agog in the chilly marsh, aglow without scales or skin. May the jut of your jaw, your eyeless eyes, guide