The Cost of Waiting

Last night I dreamt of / walking to Auger Beach / at dusk / only to find the tide / too high again:

I buy an old city bus, which will / whisk me away from this sinkhole I’m circling.

in people. That whatever gods / I choose, I choose to love

The American dentist who shot Cecil the Lion once said, If I had known this animal had a name … I obviously wouldn’t have killed it.

This is how you keep your head down; this is how you thank God for this country: loudly so they hear / you;

The finest strand of dark green yarn / masquerades itself an accessory / wispy and frayed

We’ve come to Des Moines for the funeral. Fitting / place: I’ve driven through every time I was leaving home to live / somewhere new.

1. Start with a name / By the end of this pamphlet, you will be able to practice the art of waiting in three simple steps.

At the beginning of my future is me. At the end of my past, also me.

In the photos taken before I wore it, the gown hangs from a grape arbor.

I tore through the Target, Hurricane Hooper hellbent / on proving that his skin was / crisp enough

It’s Monday morning, April 2020, and I am trying to see if my dad has had a stroke from 800 miles away.

maryland turns into my mother’s favorite place.

On October 10th, 2023, I rediscover a keffiyeh — a traditional Palestinian scarf — while unpacking boxes in my new apartment in Seattle.

Wait a year, or two, or ten. Or maybe you’ll wait two decades — squeezing through the cracks in eVerify and RealID until the bureaucratic walls grow too high and you must go under.

Amy’s finally cleared up whatever’s been stuck in her throat.