shadow of a gravestone—
to grapple with the coming night.
Shadow shrouding the visage

of the mother of the deceased:
soon, you will recede
as she pulls away her veil,

leaving the light to reveal
eyes newly darkened
by shadows cast from within.

If you send schoolchildren to the graveyard
in search of shelter,
I will not judge you.

Take this crumpled photograph of my love
and smudge it as you will. Or leave it be,

let it soak in the mist of your departure
and leave it to the wind
to bring to my doorstep.

blinking into dulled hues
of orange, they float
away as ashen flakes,

leaving, like twisted
black ribbons,

drawings upon her skin.

One by one they fall
like little bent feathers
from the tips of her fingers,

gathering like snowfall
till her bed is lined
by a flightless white flock.

With two tiny mirages
of gauzy wings flapping
burnt onto her irises,

she waits in quiet resolve
for the cranes to lift her
in a chorus across the sky.

In quiet procession,
the streetcars are swallowed
behind the horizon’s yellow teeth.

I open the window and let in the chill
so that I can see

how part of me leaves
with each wispy breath.

Even the murky breaths we’d touch
with our frostbitten fingertips,
the bedside stories we’d whisper
against our cold, moonlit walls.

Still, the ice on your eyelashes,
your voice like waxed violin strings,
your smile that curls like a wick:
I needed them. You knew this.

You knew this so you stayed with me.
You stayed when I tipped our lantern,
when drips fell in our open eyes.
You stayed while our igloo gave way.

There was nowhere within the confines of the prison for Bobby to graze, and the meals were ill-suited for his herbivorous diet. He had become weak and frail due to his malnutrition and regular fights, and began to wonder if he’d ever live to see the day of his release.

The thought of his joeys was all that kept Bobby’s will alive. It had been years since he was taken from them, but he was confident that his children would be exactly where he had left them.

(Continue reading the story here.)

and every bit of shadow
that clings on as you
slide on into the night
is me somehow

like rope on the pulley
of his own descending grave.
When the killer’s face began to appear

ruffled and out of place in his dreams,
he would wake up chilled
to the marrow,

his fingers
clutching the rope
that held the pendulum over his head.

send away the gleam
that slides across
these silken threads!

the paint chips
mistaken
for snowflakes!

the smell of
glistening venom
in the morning!

leave me to weave
myself cocooned
until she returns!

the little widow!
winding the web
that unwound me.