1:

I brush the leaves from my grandfather’s back.

He winks at me, puts one leaf in my wallet,

says someday it will be worth something.

2:

I cut the names of the dead from a damaged book,

glue the thin strips to my eyelids

for lashes, and bat them.

3:

My father and I pose in a hall of mirrors.

He opens his mouth, holds it open;

I crouch, almost crush myself.

4:

An old friend tries to drown in a cup of coffee,

calls the game: Guess Who Can Breathe

In The Black Water?

5:

The dog of my childhood is put to sleep;

my parents do not bring her body home—

we bury sticks.

6:

I am running, fast, as in a silent film,

into the street where there is no procession,

no parade.