Something I have learned in the past year is that there are broken Heineken bottles on the crest of every boulder in New England. In Lakeville, in Jamaica Plain, in the New Hampshire places I’m not sure have names yet, there are shards of green glass beating back the sun like emeralds.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Panic returns at two in the afternoon. My lover reminds me that my eyes are gray when I am sad: storms on a sea. The words fall deep into the hole I occupy. I remind him that I have crossed every ocean to arrive here. I am shivering as if dripping and wet.
Letter to a Boy
What tides surge in your chest, moving you? You who try to hold all of me in your arms when I contain the entire moon.