I am thirty-two, and in love, again, this time
with a man whose name rolls off my tongue
like water. I’m afraid of hope.
I wish I could make sense
of the child’s empty bed,
the bullet hole though my brother’s heart.
Most literary presses fade away when the founder leaves, so I cannot tell you how much it thrills me that AHP continues into the second generation.
In those days, there was a woman in our circle
who was known, not only for her beauty,
but for taking off all her clothes and singing opera.
And sure enough…