Suitcases in the car, I found abuelo knelt by his bed, smelling of guaro, praying for his late son, Roberto, Homecoming Queen, who paraded in a pink dress even my tia (cross-herself)-admitted, looked fabulous.
Last night I watched The Unassisted Home Birth of Felix Alexander Pt. 2. I was most struck by the moment when the baby’s gray face emerged. Her partner was wiping her ass right above Felix’s gray little face. Frightening proximity of shit. Sent this to Ana Cecilia and she said: dear god. As in dear god—deliver me from this? It makes sense now, the whole saga of Eve.
Which are you going to do, small plovers? Run for cover, or take the plunge? Neither; you just hover at the shoreline, where waves smooth and resmooth the sand, til it’s as raw as scraped calfskin. Little poem makers . . . What are you writing, plovers? With your feet stamping cuneiform into the beach:
The song of Cicadettamontana is a static hiss, with irregular lulls, and has not been heard in Great Britain for twenty years. Thus conservationists have sent out drones across the pastures, heath and woods of the New Forest, to listen and record what they hear. In the next phase