Arthropoda Californiae

Three weeks after my husband’s cremation
I cancelled the contract
with the exterminator.

Now, I share a home with arthropods.

They teach me to inhabit
hollow spaces. Their movements expand
each room. An ant scurries
around the fortress of cinnamon
on the kitchen counter; the silverfish glitters
on the tub rim like the last link
of a well-worn necklace; centipedes swipe
the bedroom floor like bristly fingers
in search of a hand.

A crossed orb …

More In: Poetry


You have to remember the Aspen grove;

the white stalks of trees, their stuttering leaves–

the descending quiet. Vesper sparrows.

No one beside you; no one behind you.

But you hear …

every you, every us

Think remember map our
every you every us every night every darkness
lay fear down
lay in sadness
carry this acre
taken from a map

Condominium Song #3

Steve speaks slowly, and because he is the 
Housing Association President,
he also speaks in detail, willing nothing
be missed or wrong. He is old so events
take on …


Our contract was balletic—
you took from me the rabbits spooked

inside their still damp nest.
Then, you were a room

I lived through entirely. Snowed in
all the way …