Introducing myself has always been difficult and when people mispronounce my name, sometimes I wish I was in fact a sweet bird so I could become buoyant, grow wings, and finally take flight. 

We lost a second eight months after the first and now our house crawls with spirits who’ll never learn how to walk.

I watch helplessly as memories, like dim shadows / fade in my mind. They are but tiny echoes of black / and yellow butterfly wings fluttering in the breeze, /

Tonight, like most weeknights, the old woman placed her small dinner plate on the tray before her recliner. She clicked on the television and anticipated Alex’s company. For the next half-hour, her meal would go untouched, phone calls went unanswered, and on the rare occasions the doorbell rang, she ignored it. 

A bird sits alone on a branch / in the garden as we talk about / nature and lost souls. If there / is such a thing. The bird sings / to no one. Does it have a soul? /

The rainy season, / gives birth to living beasts of mud, / locomotives off their rails, / with an unknown destination.