who was left at the bus stop
that one Tuesday morning
and the mother never came back.
I forgave her,
for some reason
and that's maybe a human trait
to understand someone for giving up;
there's no room, really, for hate.
And in the end we just keep going
and here's how I know:
when I came back late that day
he was still there, smiling,
hoping
for a bus to come
to take him anywhere
but there.
of me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b
is write little books, is what I heard the husband of a friend say once. that's all she does, all day he said and she laughed and I nodded and felt my shoulders sink and remembered her laugh as I sat
Bring in your dead, she said. So I dragged my lovers out of the warm cocoons of my sheets out through my crooked legs and my sweat-soaked arms and watched as they clutched not at the bed, but at their