arms outstretched / I yearn to be enraptured

Death stands in the doorway of an old woman's hospital room.

Crow picks up his sister's blue bones, which turn to dust from the pyre

A listless line of lyrics

Your call. Mine.

I miss those rides to school or to the city

When the ghosts have stopped haunting

I know that / when you cry, / you cover your head

She is the last strides

Nausea lurks in my bowels

Anxiety is the breath in my mouth

Wouldn’t we all rip the pope to pieces

I find them on supermarket shelves across the country.

Children’s scissors cut / shapes in recycled paper

I say perhaps if we’d met / in an alternate universe

Caridad Crowley spends her evenings writing and deleting what could be the next great American novel

baby im licking my wounds

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I hear them scurrying about on the roof above me.

The man hunches in the driver’s seat of the minivan