Still-Life Ask her what she thinks as she conceals her baby in fallen leaves and detritus. Still-born, still-life. All that waiting, all that love unanswered. So many clouds with dark underbellies.

First Sentence I cannot remember my first word, but I do recall my first sentence: cribbed in a box with the lid on, kept by a familial jailer with a sour tongue, under house arrest where sheets were hot wet prisons. I was moon-stricken when hands larger than God clawed my skin and pulled at my hair. No night was safe from your finger-hooks. No day was free of your iceberg pettiness And petty grievances contrived at your desk. And look, there’s your ne