Plate 4 The Lost Jockey
He holds a lantern at the end of her driveway. I wouldn’t say lost so much as condemned and disoriented. Nothing I love lives here long. Any longer. At one time—acorns would knock on the roof, the screen door squeak-slam, a kettle whistle in the kitchen. Then the taste of mold. He knows as fact, I easily hurt.
Plate 18 An End to Contemplation
Linoleum. Pink bear named Pinky. Radishes. An empty milk carton by the sink is full of coffee grounds and eggshells. By the stove, pine. Cat turds. Cat turds by the phone. I close the kitchen door so I can phone. It’s 1970. It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw— Mother’s purple kimono from her mother. Blue linoleum. I hit my sister.
Plate 47 The Acrobat’s Ideas
Tights and gloves leave an impressive impression. But against clouds, snow, or skirmish—?
Plate 33 The Finery of the Storm
In the hurricane, we heard a crack, looked out, and saw her slow crash. That willow was dead meat since he’d excised and burned the heart, a wasp nest! (How fine their fury!) The stump resembles a stupa. Stupor.
Plate 70 The Annunciation
Just as my nieces drown their dollhouse babies in the dollhouse tub, so I would images: her dry eraser in his office.