The Dream of a Pillow (audio only)
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I can’t recall where to set the knife and spoon.
I can’t recall which side to place the napkin
or which bread plate belongs to me. Or
how to engage in benign chatter.
I can’t recall when more than one fork—
which to use first. Or what to make of this bowl of water.
I can’t see the place cards or recall any names.
The humiliation is impressive. The scorn.
No matter how much my brain “revises” the dinner
to see if the host was a family member—
I can’t recall which dish ran away with which spoon.
2016
A bandana. A cardinal. An apple
No. 2 lead pencil—the mechanical pencil, now empty—appears more vivid
A box of toothpicks—now that I'm baking bran muffins
2020
Good was shot in the face three times.
Good was shot in ICE-cold-blood.
The President stated that she weaponized her car, but Good
did no such thing.
Good was a poet. Good can come of poets.
Today, Good can’t breathe either.
2026