From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

There is no silence lovelier than the one 
That flowers upon a flowering tree at night. 
There is no silence known beneath the sun 
That is so strange to bear, nor half so white. 
If I had all that silence in my heart, 
What yet unfinished heavens I could sing! 
My words lift up and tremble to depart, 
Then die in air, from too much uttering.
It must have been beneath a tree like this 
An angel sought a girl in Galilee, 
While she looked up and pondered how the kiss 
Of God had come with wings and mystery. 
It may be that a single petal fell. 
Heavy with sorrow that it could not tell.

How many times I tried to record the Goldberg Variations
Once in Iceland another time in California
It was Mercury in retrograde I didn’t get the chords right
You see I wanted a different kind of music
One that felt like a foreign city or ice cracking
A prediction of snow and then the snow itself endless
I wanted the blue stripes on your shirt the paleness of your underarm
The whiteout of a spring blizzard, everything unexpected
See I didn’t do well with indeterminacy—the blank sides of a dice
The piano chord I recognized but couldn’t name
A different kind of intimacy because I was tired of being unsurprised
Behind me in the photo the black river unraveled
Like a list of the dead children or the ones I never had
The field split open like a lip
I asked the river for answers but heard nothing
The path was obscured by another person’s tracks in the snow
Snow falling so slowly that no one noticed it.

with grievance’s command.

I am the daughter she trains
to translate lightning.

I am the half-deaf child she assigned
to tone-deaf judges.

I am the girl
riding shot-gun to iron.

I am birthing feet first
with no mid-wife to catch.

I sprint, high-jump,
and fist-fight in her defense. 

I am a dialect
born inside her quietude.

I susurrate incantations
transcribing her rivered idioms.

She is rivered remembering,
and I am her subpoenas.

We were never ones to avoid pain 
even if we found him in another person.

And when we do (find him again)—
let him have not been born in the rain 

and grown up to become a storm. 
His kisses lightning that scorches the earth. 

As young girls, our grandmothers warned us 
When there is lightning, cover all the mirrors. 

But, one night thunder snapped; 
its rumble shattering the vanity.

We’ve chased cloudbursts ever since. 
Committed ourselves to flood and flight.

For girls like us who pray to the Sky Beings—  
Protect us whenever we go 
                                          where we were never meant to be. 
Put tobacco down 
for the ones

with Creator-shaped holes in our hearts. 
We spend lifetimes trying to fill,

to feel. What is the medicine for this?

Our mothers tell us (as they taught) 
Send them love. Send them love. Send [say it] love—

So, praise our fathers who left in the night,
mapping us into unlovable.

They made us tough as nails. Now we know 
how to hold ourselves together.

Praise the ones who listened 
when girls like us asked them to leave.

Praise the lovers who never returned.
You helped us no longer be afraid of ghosts.

For girls like us, 
the wound never fully heals.

The gentle rhythm of its pulse, a reminder to
praise our mothers for teaching us words are seeds.

We plant, bloom ourselves anew.
Praise the lightning. Praise the storms

we run through
because girls like us know—

this is where 
our medicine comes from.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song ’twas once such pleasure to hear!
When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

At six being a girl meant Tinkerbell
nail polish and pointed, pink Barbie shoes.
Sequined fairy wands and slippers that fell
off my feet when I ran. Outside the blue
sky a backdrop for green grass, the sweet
gum tree that was home base. Everything caught
my eye and sparkled. Rain-freshened earthworms,
armored rollie-pollies, and firefly dots.
At night the television played the news.
Its cyclopean eye returned my stare.
The goat-like pupil reflected a parade
of women and girls like ewes. Fair
and lovely. I thought they were adored.
Later, I was not a girl anymore.¹ 

I survived. That’s all there is to say 
about the trampling. A forest or

some grand ecosystem of 
machetes hidden in cheeks.

What a mouth. The beast of the beast. 
Everything I am can kill me

or give another reason to operate 
from uneducated fear. I’m from

where love is. Bones don’t weigh a death. 
I need to have a word with all the gods

that failed me. They wear masks and 
vernacular like those whose caskets I’ve prayed next to.

They feed me pitted pomegranates full of smoke. There are 
no angels. Just good people and the memories they become.

Press your wrists to your ears. Slow the world down. 
Leave hope and learn your song. All I have are

my lungs to breathe, my mouth to speak, my legs to 
proceed and my arms to make my enemies fall.

All enemies I’ve been, fall, now. I will not hurt myself but 
I will save myself even if it hurts. My body is learning

to heal and runs on tactical forgiveness. The ones who 
lied to me, about me, on me have been forgiven

how the wind forgives the large blade swung through it. 
How the blade forgives itself for being mishandled and

chooses only to understand those who need weapons 
to feel bigger than their own body. An overwhelming

space. I burn and there is no smoke. I excavate, 
I’m wrestling skeletons out of my mouth.

I’m catching up with who I want to be. 
I’m saying day after day, I live

the harder it will be to kill me.

      ^{—after Dante Di Stefano}

The music of smishing
hides its meaning, a type
of online fraud. Nurdle makes me
smile, until I read it’s plastic

choking the ocean. Girl Dinner
is not three plates of my mom’s
lasagna, but meager bites and leftovers. Brainrot
sounds like what it is, as does

enshittification and global
boiling. I feel a fever coming
scrolling through Merriam Webster’s
youngest words—until I hit jorts, remember

June. Soon I’ll shed these wools
of my first winter in Upstate New York,
where cold damp clusters under
skin. A word for that? I ask

the chatbot, who says, “Ooh, I love this
kind of invention” before delivering
chillmur: That creeping, whispery sensation …
subtle but insistent, like fog

slipping in. A word for fear
of chatbots? Scriptechxia. For
the breed of ennui that tempts
poets to query them

for language? Lexadeference or
verbadelegate or thinksourcing. Not
bad. Isn’t it time I peeled myself
from the couch, touched grass, 

left the digital sphere to run
my fingers through Binghamton’s hair,
the astroturf of my neighbor’s lawn? Knockoff
of what the brand AstroTurf

rolled out in Houston’s Astrodome
in 1966. The stadium’s name a nod
to the city’s NASA Mission Control,
which led the first astronauts

to land on the moon. Or did they land?
My friend swears no. I’m not sure
of much, except it’s hard to say
what’s true. We suspect the higher-ups

have hidden motives for telling us
so. The feds, my parents, their Catholic
god, AI, this sense, despite all I know
of marrow, of wind in my bones.

called you from your idle

dream-workshop with the subtle spanners,

half-speeches, after keeping

you up late as my youth last night, later

than the gods’ twilight, who witnessed your trials

at fixing kinks in my causal body, just before sleep.

(Though I guess now that gods do sleep, I don’t know where.)

I watched a star burn through your wall-length windows

—no sun of ours, we were long past

midnight—resplendent fire raging far more

distant, more dead. Pur ti miro, you showed me,

Pur ti stringo, pur ti godo. I felt closer than

ever to inspiration—each breath into passive lungs—

while your fingers pressed behind my neck.

Pur t’annodo: I enchain you, I tie you down.

You left me asleep on the couch, and I thought by

dawn I’d sneak in beside your soul. But

a blessed light came disrupting the blind-

fold and blinds, and instead I woke you with Wagner.

^{translated from the French by Youmna Chamieh}

We will no longer be able to think (breathe, words like silence)
Of the too great complication of what it is to live.
The poem will be, more and more blind, nothing but words:
No one will be able to truly hear them.
Something else will come within ruins of time and friendship,
It won’t even be worth saying that we must die,
We will die.

Un jour écrire deviendra trop difficile.

On ne pourra plus penser (respirer, les mots comme du silence)
À la trop grande complication de ce que c’est vivre.
Le poème sera, de plus en plus aveugle, plus rien que des mots :
Personne qui pourra les entendre pour de vrai.
Quelque chose d’autre viendra dans des ruines de temps et d’amitié,
Ce sera même pas la peine de dire qu’il faut mourir,
On mourra.

^{If I die, I want a loud death. I don’t want to be just 
breaking news, or a number in a group, I want a death
that the world will hear, an impact that will remain
through time, and a timeless image that cannot be
buried by time or place. 
         —Fatima Hassouna, Gaza photo journalist,
         on April 15, before her death on April 16, 2025}

Like the sound waves in space that tear 
the remnants of supernovas, and twist the paths
of light
           so maybe this is why some spiral galaxies 
like Messier 77 resemble ears. 
                                                   But also when  
sunset splinters its light over the ridgeline and 
the fireflies in this ravine cry desperately to save it,
  
or when the embers from last night’s crackling 
campfire tremble, 
     or when our dog begins to fear
the sounds we do not hear,
        then we know those waves
have touched us too.
                         For it is the silence after 
the plane’s screech or the missile’s strike,
a kind of voiceless scream
                                           that her photos captured
even as she stood among the rubble looking up
as if those waves could also signal a moment’s
desperate hope.
                        There is so much we do not hear—
the rumble of shifting sand dunes, the purr and drum 
of the wolf spider, the echoes of bats, the explosions 
on the sun, the warning cry of the treehopper, but

it’s the cry of those buried alive we so often refuse
to hear as too distant or beyond our reach to help,

yet even an elephant’s infrasound, which can be 
detected by herd members as far as 115 miles
brings them to safety,
which tells us, well, 
tells us what?
                             It was Jesus (Luke 19:40)
who said if these keep silent, then the very stones
will cry out.
                      Here, the news moves on to the next
loudest story,
                      or some chat on the phone blares
the latest scandal, score or personal interest.
In Gaza, 
one journalist warned, a press vest makes you a target.

In one photo a hand reaches through the rubble is if 
it were reaching to speak, 16 April 2025, from Al-Touffah.

In the end, it was the sound of her home collapsing.

In the end, we are all targets in our silences.

In the end, we know her absence the way each syllable 
shouts its lament, pleading from inside each of these words.