If you find the bones of a bear, sit down and stay with them. The dead desire our company. Touch each one—scapula, tibia, ulna—even the tiniest bones of the hind and Continue reading →

I guess black people can write about flowers at a time like this since every poem turns on itself. Starts one way to end another. We see it in nature, too. Continue reading →

Against white sky, the birch tree opens its many dark                         mouths. She hears its words, golden river under snow. Continue reading →

the mother stands at the kitchen sink. knife in gloved hand, she removes the fish scales with the discipline of her calendar, with the swiftness of her cursive. her gloves are Continue reading →

is tiny, long-tailed, works by stealth in all seasons, conducting aerial dives from perches in foliage, scattering feathers of songbirds in its path. It can soar to great heights or fly Continue reading →