I lost my first
wedding ring
that summer

we floated
on inner tubes
coupled together,
drinking ice-cold
beer in the sun.

A flash of gold
and it was gone.

I lost the boots
my father wore
in Vietnam.

I lost the first
pocketknife
I ever owned.

I lost my mother.

I lost my way
in college once,
watching heavy snow
smother the foothills
and switchbacks,
watching mountain
birds turn wide circles
above rough canyons.

I lost track of time but
found my father’s gun.

Winter will always
sound like the whir
of a cylinder spun in
an unfurnished room.

We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,

we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,

we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.

We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,

the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,

the hard melancholy
of dying machines.

We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,

we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.

Little girls can be sad
Or is her blue gaze but fixed into the bubbling fountain
caught in a tale that adults cannot grasp?
Pops taps her shoulder
We must go, he mutters
Granny is waiting

Little girls can be sad
an ugly word
a wrong dress
an angry teacher
a friend gone astray
lack of purpose for a long walk downtown

Little girls can be sad
Holding grandpa's hand she performs
a subdued dance to the music in her head
not touching forbidden stones
and without Pops noticing
a quick splash in the puddle

Little girls can be sad
But not for long this time

As ek snags
in ons bed
met my koue voet
jou warm kniekuil kry
dan voel ek
die ewige geluk
ook al is môre
dalk alles verby

Where've you been, what've you seen?
The river rushes by;
no time to tattle

I don't want to be taken for granted
I don't want to be taken
I want to give

hungry heart
sore eyes
your hands
are like turpentine
you've wiped away the
years i've made,
the work of my mother
you'll make a home
in another,
you feed
to devour
what's missing from
your heart.
your scabs heal too
fast for you to know
what   you
did wrong in the first
place

i used to mark your bread for you.
from red flour, a rhythm
of tuck in and roll.
i'd never been built like that
before
i formed bread like you taught me
but i formed myself first
now it's only found through
a lavender mist as
each day passes quietly
that i remember chalk on my hands.
dust from boards and dust from bread
maybe my cure is bread itself
to form it again and give it a name
like mine.

the ocean would warm us. we watched her waves
embrace the shore where sea urchins lay.
she was deep red coral, and salt-dried,
hiding ***** in her divots.
her rocks underfoot were green and
mossy. long and neon strands of algae.
the restaurants along the streets
were full of golden people,
dusty with sand and dried salt.
calamari and flour frying.
the early evening sunsets,
like glass on water. the blend to night
goes unnoticed. motorcycles
amplified at night.
we were young then
when we took our grandmother
by the hand, crossed the street
to the ice cream stand.
she didn't speak our language
and some words we missed in hers.
you'll never know a shock of hearing her speak out of her own tongue.
for years we were lost from each other. i wish i had known all along
that she had learned to speak to us.
i wish i did the same