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In my father’s final weeks he would collapse into a chair to catch his breath each time he crossed his kitchen. What work the lungs had left to do, a tumor pressed against the heart’s soft artery. Afterward, in Cabo Pulmo, where divers held their breath for centuries, grappling for mother of pearl, I heard the hiss of gills, that movement outward and inward, gasps of microbes … Continue Reading ››
It falls from my binder, cherry crayon streaks ripen in sun, LOVE RILEY— a valentine from my son, three weeks before he died, cutout paper once a tree, before its felling, and reduction to pulp. I pick up the heart, hold it like a seed I’ll save to grow an oak. I couldn’t answer his question, Mommy, does paper remember being a tree?
you slipped into your flesh suit, its rosy padding, and zipped it up, little latch throbbing in your throat? A slide of light, sip of mother blood- breath? Until you loosed the pulsing cord to swim into this next world— passage to desire. Incarnate, yielding to succulence and savor—crush of almond marzipan upon the tongue, ooze of cool mud between toes in August’s sweat-dogged days, even … Continue Reading ››