was no consolation to the woman
whose husband was strung out on opioids.

Gone to a better place: useless and suspect intel
for the couple at their daughter’s funeral

though there are better places to be
than a freezing church in February, standing

before a casket with a princess motif. 
Some moments can’t be eased

and it’s no good offering clichés like stale
meat to a tiger with a taste for human suffering.

When I hear the word miracle I want to throw up
on a platter of deviled eggs. Everything happens

for a reason: more good tidings someone will try
to trepan your skull to insert. When fire

inhales your house, you don’t care what the haiku says
about seeing the rising moon. You want

an avalanche to bury you. You want to lie down
under a slab of snow, dumb as a jarred

sideshow embryo. What a circus.
The tents dismantled, the train moving on,

always moving, starting slow and gaining speed,
taking you where you never wanted to go.

If I had known that the cup of chai 
my mother asked me, a drifter 
in the kitchen, to make her 
that afternoon, which I 
having blended water and milk 
in such strange ratios 
that when reduced and strained
the tea came up 
to barely one trisection of my pinkie
(that cup was the driest well I saw, 
the lowest tide) so to cover my blunder
I poured raw tap water to flood her cup 
and fled her room before she could 
collect her body, bring lip to saucer, 
had I known that the pale, putrid mess 
I presented, was after all, the only and 
last cup of tea I’d ever make her
would I have suddenly been 
granted the culinary wisdom to brew 
instead the pot with sprigs of lemongrass,
a pod of cardamom, perhaps even 
a prestigious thread of saffron
that I’d sneak from the silver hexagonal box 
she kept hidden behind the airtight jars 
of pricey nuts, and bring her
a creamy drink of complex caffeine, even
make some magnanimous promise 
of offering her tea on tap till she lived 
but knowing me, I know I’d have just 
continued being the spectacular failure I was 
that day, shit-talking my every inability 
out of her sight, embarrassed by failure, 
afraid of consequence and knowing her, 
she would have creased her nose 
at first, then continued to descend 
on the plate with the hopeful pull 
of her slurp, stubborn as she was, 
not willing to peg one finite judgement
of adulation or derision— 
on the cup she was served

As he holds his wife’s hand, the nurse tells him to
breathe. He will be a good father. He 
could be. His wife tows a boat on land with her teeth. 
Don’t worry. Good father. Breathe. Later,
everyone smiles when he jogs with the stroller. He 
feigns interest in ponies. He pushes a swing and his daughter
giggles. He applies sunblock, and 
helps warm the bottle, and he is
inducted into the fatherly hall of fame. He 
jumps on the trampoline, and the chorus sings Good Father. He wipes
ketchup off her cheek at the zoo, and the old women 
laud. He is told he is a new breed of
man. Evolved. His knuckles just barely or
never scraping the ground. He hugs
often enough, packs her lunch, and the crowd 
pours on the applause. He lays her down for 
quiet time. It goes somewhat well. 
Rejoice, the people shout, for here is a
saint, as he lifts diapers to the conveyor belt.
Truthfully, he feels slightly
unwell. A bowl of plastic fruit is pretty, but 
vaguely toxic. He sleeps fine
without a mouth affixed to his chest. His bottle of
Xanax is half full. The nurse says,
You will be a good father. He jogs with the stroller. He reaches the
zenith of a very small hill. 

^{to Mary Rose}

Here is our little yard  

too small            for a pool  
or chickens   let alone 

a game of tag or touch 
football       Then 

again   this stub-  
born patch  

of crabgrass  is just 
big enough      to get down  

flat on our backs 
with eyes wide open    and face 

the whole gray sky  just 
as a good drizzle 

begins                   I know  
we’ve had a monsoon  

of grieving to do  
which is why  

I promise    to lie 
beside you  

for as long as you like  
or need  

We’ll let our elbows 
kiss     under the downpour  

until we’re soaked  
like two huge nets  
                    left  

beside the sea  
whose heavy old

ropes strain  
stout with fish 

If we had to     we could  
feed a multitude  

with our sorrows  
If we had to  

we could name   a loss  
for every other  

drop of rain   All these  
foreign flowers 

you plant from pot  
to plot  

with muddy fingers  
—passion, jasmine, tuberose—  

we’ll sip 
the dew from them  

My darling                here
is the door I promised  

Here
is our broken bowl Here  

                        my hands  
In the home of our dreams  

the windows open  
in every  

weather—doused  
or dry—May we never  

be so parched 

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
     It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
     Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
     All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
     Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
     But all of them sensible everyday names,
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
     A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
     Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
     Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum—
     Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
     And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
     But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
     The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
     Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
          His ineffable effable
          Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular name.

Two years into anorexia recovery, 
when I begin to miss dying more than ever, 
my cat begins to hide. 
She disappears for hours and I find her 
hammocked in the lining of my couch. 
She has hollowed it out with her teeth 
and stares at me through cobwebbed eyes. 

I am startled at my own anger. 
After all the time and love I’ve given her, 
I can’t forgive her turning away like this. 
My partner reminds me that cats 
do not know how to be cruel, 
but they do know survival and fear. 
Each day, I reach into the dark 
mouth of the couch and pull her, 
claws and all, back into life. 

Weeks later, she dies with no one home. 
I discover the body and the urge to blame 
myself glows hot in my chest. 
How could I let her die 
in an empty house? 
How could I be so cruel. 

On the drive to donate her body, 
my partner apologizes with every breath. 
We pull over and he cries into my coat, 
How could I let this happen? 
And I know that if he feels guilty too, 
maybe the blame belongs to neither of us. 

This is the person who tried 
to breathe life back into the cat’s corpse, 
without realizing what he was doing. 
He did it because his instincts told him to, 
because every cell in his body is good. 
For weeks, the memory will make him 
shiver, gag, rinse the moment from his mouth. 

This is the person who gave everything 
to keep me alive, when letting me die 
was the easiest thing to do. 
He never stopped looking for me 
when I hid in the hollows of myself and my heart 
became a shadowy hallway of locked doors. 

This is the person who, if I died 
as the doctor said I would, 
would surely blame himself, 
and I would bang my phantom fists 
against the plexiglass of the living world, 
screaming No! 

I did not die. 
And when I was stuck in the hospital, 
sobbing as I pictured him living our life alone, 
I wrote him a letter asking how 
he could ever forgive me. 
He wrote back saying I would 
rather miss you for a while 
than miss you forever. 

In the car now, he asks how 
we’ll ever survive this 
and I say Together. 

            ^{I did not run away
            I walked away by daylight      
                         —Sojourner Truth}

The hour  I  ran  out
on   my   bondage  I
didn’t                  run.
The        sun       was
Shining        in     its
Sunday’s           best,
beating its coat
on   my   coat.   This
heat   produced  my
sweat,    not      swift
feet.   My      haircut,
new.    &     my    hat
wore ribbons
fit        a          church
frontrow.  A   day  so
ordinary who  could
guess
what       I      walked
away    from?    How
could   I   be  anyone
but me,
with   my   name   in
my  teeth?   My  feet
gliding  under   each
detective’s   lowered
brim.    The   bounty
on my head
higher    than   hawk
circles.

The  night I walked
out   on  my  master
is  when   I   learned
I  was   serving  one.
The    same     molar
chiding  my  cheeks
a   mole    engorging
silence.    My     first
spy   the    dream  in
my
brain    entrenching
ownership.   I spent
12,000              treks
thinking my
moves   were     my
own  until   I  found
road stretching out
of  a  forest I hadn’t
even    seen    grow.
When I arrived
at    the     brush   &
flatland    I     knew
where   I had   been
had  not  been mine,
but   a  life   for   my
first love.    The first
who      gave        my
selfness   a    ceiling.
How  could   I  have
not     chosen      my
maker before
choosing myself?

The night I walked
out  on   my  master
wasn’t night
at    all.     Freedom
made the day
ordinary  in  a   new
way.   How    for    a
fish water is never
new,  just  a  change
between       bodies.
But if      a       child
exits
my  chute  gravity is
law,      &        down
becomes                 a
direction.
The first time my
feet touched floor I
learned the bottom.
After,
I  took  my  legs  &
forged      a       path
between  a  past   &
Jupiter.
Now    time     can’t
touch   me   &   I’m
where     water     is
always fresh
though  it pains like
we do.   Where pine
trees grow w/ no
hunting   season   is
where I am headed.
A  compass  w/   no
map   is   the   stars.
Find your way.  If  I
told       you        the
address
It  wouldn’t   be   a
secret.

to estimate one’s position
without instruments
or celestial observations

calculating direction and distance
traveled from the last known fix
while accounting for tides, currents, grief

drift         numbness
sudden storms of pain
unexpected joy

to reckon is to believe
something true
to reckon with the dead

is to believe I can know them
an airy thinness
gleaming

despite
the distance
traveled

I’d like to know how far
I’ve gone
how much farther there is

to go         how absence
unfathomable
becomes

something I can carry