The body is gone. / But the shape of gravity is known. We carry her, / like a folded jacket of spirit, laying in our arms.
You learned to spill by breathing out / make room for the warm marrow / that gives this pot its power
She was the only person who left me a note about what type of tree she is—which by the way is a magnolia. (Ask her why.)
Red-faced and enraged, I bite into / red strawberries, my face blooming / red. I read red words in a book my father / read. All of the pages are red. All of the words a- / re distractingly read.
the priest speaks of my parents in many ways; though the undertaker speaks in one.
everywhere I look, I see eruption. A startle / of ice cracks off a branch above my head. / A local dog goes from saunter to sprint / at the sight of a squirrel.
After our discussion of childhood traumas, once / we’ve revisited a town in this valley named / Yettem (Armenian for Eden), you press your back against my chest.
The telephone is ringing and the dead on Everest answer: “I am so cold—please don’t cry. Everything will be fine.”