When tree frogs bell the night, you'll find me by
the lych-gate, as I search the mirror

Mostly I love your eyes.
I know you want me to like
the shape your body makes.

You want your ashes scattered
over the gulf of Finland
to rebuke your place of birth.

The child was laid low in the hospital;
He passed through fire and no one
Could take the fire away

Lonesome treasure digger mines for shadows of the past,
treading on abandoned grounds,
searching for the shape she cast

Grateful I didn't have a child
doomed to scrub, I scrubbed
other people's linens

I’d feel betrayed if these small betrayals stopped,
And if suddenly superhuman virtue prevailed . . . 

A soft breeze through the open window and the sweet-sour perfume of blood. Esteban Luna took a sip of coffee from his favorite mug, ten years old now, PAPA painted on the side in Juliet’s first-grade hand. Cold.

I'm not certain how it came to this. This thing I can't name. But if you're old enough to marry and have children---that's the key to understanding . . .

Alejandro stood on the south side of the fence and looked across. In his small village a long way from here, where the air smelled of wet dirt and rotting mango . . .