I tore a lion with my hands and didn’t tell my mom or dad.
In the second trimester I seized my lion’s jaw and whispered I’m sorry.
A VACUUM cleans the carpet. A vacuum’s a hole in space.
The nasty physician at my side continues to vacuum apace.
The anesthetics aren’t funded; ocean breath has to do.
Pranayama on the table: if it’s in your practice, ujjayi.
Here is a corridor too thin to be able to walk two abreast.
Nothingness passes through me. Doctor says there’s nothing left.
The face of an arctic kitfox is stained red by his diet.
We prick the infant’s day-old foot for her first bloody steps.
Innocent friends will offer that you made the right decision.
Brother, if these are my right decisions, I shudder to see the wrong.