I told everyone, when I wrote the note I was thinking of sand.

I told everyone, when I wrote the note it was sand.

My mother knows nothing

more than I do but she carries it better.

If she were a metaphor I could turn into her.

A hospital glows near the overpass.
Everyone in bed there wears a gown.
When faced with the prospect of change,
I’m not brave.

While winter sun squints at the ghost flower

dying in its shabby terra cotta

far from home

dad 

teach me how to get that bald shiny

just like you. and there we’ll be 

two scalps approaching bald 

My wild grief didn’t know where to start or end.

Sometimes, I dig my hands

through the earth just to get

my fingers dirty.