She knows the taste of nails,
a clutch of them in her mouth
like a dressmaker’s pins.
The flavor of iron is comforting,
something she can wield. (more…)

We first played this game as children
some three thousand miles south of here,
clattering out of screen porches
and down back steps onto cushioning grass.
Here my thick boots snap the snow like bone.
Freeze, somebody would yell, and we’d halt,
our traitorous hearts still pounding their drums.
There is no pulse on the tundra but mine.

(more…)

Grandmother says
they used to bury them.
Whole gardens of them, marked with stones,
pretty trees trimmed into shapes
and little pots for flowers. (more…)

Against a barricade of damp sand
in sacks, we’ve been waiting,
ears tuned to the shuffle of soles. (more…)