Dusk is a sentient hour for Mansfield. We sit on pillows at the low table, finishing dinner. The construction workers are long gone . . .

My pincer-footed sister, Morgana, scatters food to our chickens in the kitchen garden out on the rugged farm, it being her turn again, and it being my turn to scan the horizon for regiments, and my sister is humming a well-known song that contains a rumor about the two of us….

As if tenderness were a given, give up.
Grow up or stay as young as inhumanly possible.
All at once I’m a 15-year-old-boy-scout-drop-out
and mee-maw I once met in a blue chair,
waiting by an entrance.

Most summer evenings around six, the normally quiet neighbor who meticulously mows his lawn, then returns at night with a flashlight…

In Dizzy Circle, we’d spend as long as our centers of balance would let us on our bicycles, one clockwise bike trailing the other, until we’d stop. The trick was to not let your speed shift, too fast or slow, to keep pace with the person ahead of you…

My 78-year-old mother breathes hard, curled on her left side in a darkened hospital room. Her eyes are closed. We sit in silence with her. After a lifetime of busy, now there’s only waiting. I reach out from my bedside chair and take her hands in mine.

When Lupe was a junior in high school her mother died from quick-moving cancer so she dropped out and smoked weed – then meth – in the confines of her empty inherited condo, frantically trying to numb her grief and loneliness.

I’m slouching at the bar when the devil walks in. The Moody Blues are playing on the jukebox, it’s the Circus Bar and the room is full of hookers and drug dealers and suburban kids

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

My dad read A.A. Milne’s poetry to me before bedtime from the cloth-bound copy his mother had read to him. One of our favorites was “The King’s Breakfast,”

One night we opened the door for Elijah
and he brought instantly to my nose
the rain-green wet, the brown-black-grey-
Pink-yellow wet of early spring. There is no red- 
wet--just red light in the eye as he enters the fire.

We want to cloak ourselves in black but all we can find is my mother’s funeral dress so Jessamine says she will go out naked, that witches do that sometimes.

Eddie and me found these pink little blind baby mice under a rotten log and we were scared of snakes getting them so we put them in a pile of leaves in the shade but . . .

Comforter

Moonlight across my counterpane. Around midnight, I awaken fretting. My vision clears: the room has uncommon clarity for such a witching hour.

What do you know for sure?
Even if it isn’t much, there’s something—
what you’re standing on, the way the leaves dancing
through autumn light make you feel,

My lover bought me a Mont Blanc pen

As a gift for my 23rd birthday.

He was much older than I was, knew about the passage of time.

He saw that I was afraid of becoming a writer.

Help the people of Ukraine. Donate now: Sunflower of Peace

Both Polish and Ukrainian volunteers working at the border express their solidarity with every person queuing at the crossing point.

how shall I hold them in my heart and not go mad from losses?

What if you were a teenage refugee on vacation with your parents and the lifeguard sat beside you, muscles and teeth shimmering under his fragrant choice of SPF? What if he asked you to come along, trailer the horses up to Hemet and ride with that top o’ the world slant all the way down San Jac.