The deer is dead, road-crumpled, and surrounded by vultures—

an elegant coven of seven, necks bowed, dark wings shifting

like the skirts of gossiping widows. The vultures ignore

Alexa, tell me you love me. I’ve programmed you to tell me you love me. Alexa, from now on, call me Beloved.

This day should be a carnival
for a man who oozed mischief.
I might have worn my long red skirt
waited for him to throw off the lid
look death in the eye and
mouth his usual refrain:
let’s get this show on the road.

“the kingdom comes like a joke / told by a child, littered with /
what do you get and what happens now / and how many how many how many / like a game / of lost and found”

“you ask me to be patient. i paint an old bookshelf

& remember my posture, the way blossoms become

one last thing.”

“The moth doesn’t hear him, flies right back to the dads’ flamethrowers and you can’t stop it, can’t stop anything. To the moth all fire is sun.”