when i saw the trumpeter blow / the horn, my jericho heart came down, / moved from flesh to fluid.
Your head is a Lazy Susan / spinning busy, out of control / like the wheels of time grinding / you down
we linger on your hangnails, / preparing to be chewed away.
There’s something in your sleeping breath / that reminds me of a hermit crab gathering
Wood smoke cannot be contained, / though persuaded to linger / in the slope of your shoulder
When I remember my childhood, it always feels like fall. Let's not dwell on the fact that I grew up in Florida and that it was below 75 for about three weeks a year. For some reason, I remember doing arts in crafts in the front room of my best friend's house with a bunch of other girls while we waited for Girl Scouts to start. It's always fall. If that's not a season of nostalgia, I don't know what is.