Winter 2025
The knife in my mother’s hand flakes into penny-stained rust.
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Hands brush the curtains, making them quiver like butterflies.
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we stiletto back to floodlit stages and boy flesh / stripped sequins
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You can call it karma if you can see that far, or joy-begets-sorrow.
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Suddenly John was there, in slim blue jeans and a rough white shirt.
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I'm at my desk by 7:45 or 8 a.m., and I write until early afternoon.
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If every cowboy has a sad song, I’m afraid you are mine to perform.
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