for my grandparents
She watches him sketch roses
in her garden, his head bowed so close
to the page that he is lost for minutes
at a time, before glancing up
to remind himself of the picture.
He works near the tall brick planter
covered in ivy, under a frail willow slouching
toward the ground. Her roses flower and wilt
each day in rhythm and he records them
like a time-lapse photographer, never remembering
the days that pass until she turns back a page,
says yesterday, and he shakes his white hair
as if trying to fire the synapses manually.
Each petal must drop one by one.
He folds himself, again, over the page,
pushing the thin pencil, and she wonders how far
he will whittle it down before it rests.
Mothering a Member of an Endangered Species
On Living With Geese
On a Train Platform in Siberia
The Tomorrow of Slot Machines
The Town’s Patron Saint Asks
Endurance in Yielding
"Boys named Josh are trouble"
Craigslist Missed Connections: theseus and the minotaur
Naming What Isn't
Matthew Travieso Williams
Cheryl A. Ossola
Gonzalinho da Costa
When in Mexico
symbol leaves no taste for the thing itself
Masters of Disguise
We Have Visitors Tonight
What Grows After a Forest Fire
For a Misplaced Hatchet