Tossed up like a handful of confetti, she, red tail, is elbowed off like a bride to the wild, but she reels and staggers,
my father’s collection of rosary beads–gathered over the decades from his years in the war, from marriages, baptisms, some deaths, and then others.
Them gray hairs unruly— unjust, how they romp and roam in a goatee, on a hair- line, or in pubic arena. Glinting a
I see her in the strand of wet hair dampening your t-shirt and the curve of your breast beneath it nipple raised by the