My Mother Walked Down Joy Boulevard. My Father Was A Beekeeper.
My Sister Solves The Riddle Of The Miniature House.
The Ornithologist Stands With Her Hands Cupped Together - Palms Up - Waiting To Catch What She Is Certain Is Falling Towards Her From The Sky.
Bodies Move Into Each Other Like Birds Into A Window.
The Person We Hired To Find Lost Things Becomes Lost.
Most Of Us Will Die From Complication From Our Treatments.
That Was The Year My Parents Began Speaking In A Strange Language.
The Birds Give Up Their Wigs.
The Healer Eventually Becomes Afraid Of Her Hands.
The Way Glass Vibrated Slightly After Being Touched By Light.
Words Yanked Out Of Silence. I Wake Up Inside Books.
Where There'S Smoke There Are Fireflies.
Every Time The Dictionary Swallowed
I Can't Put It Into Worlds.
The Machinery Was Put In Place To Repair A Broken Sky.
I Began Losing Pieces Of My Story.
The House That Lived In The Ground.
The Time-Flies Flew Around My Grandfather’s Face. “Time-Flies,” Said My Dead Grandfather, And He Made A Hum Sound With His Closed Mouth.
There Was More Space For Space Than There Was For Words.
Know Their Knot.
We Determined That The Music Playing In Our House Would Be Exactly The Same Music Playing In Our Cellar.
My Eyes Take Turns Closing.
The World Was A Character In The Story That I Wrote.
Events And Objects Seemed To Be Meaningful But Not With The Meaning I Had Assigned Them.
“I’D” Hide In The Middle Of Hiding.
I Have No Words For This.
The World Of Sad Objects Starts Singing.
The Fireman Carried The Ashes Of All His Fires In His Pocket.
For The People Who Fell From The Burning Plane.
I Started Speaking In Code — If I Said Everything Was Ok Then It Was Not.
That Was The Year I Finally Died In My Story.
If You Enter Through This Door You Must Give Up The Darkness In Your White Head.
One Day They Will Look Back At Us And Say, “What On Earth Were They Thinking?”
At School I Write A Story Called “Genitalia.”
The Fire Eater Burped Smoke.
My Shoes Fell Asleep.
If I Pull The Rope Hard Enough, The Whole Sky Comes Tumbling Down.
I Grew My Parents In The Dark Of The Cellar.
One Of My Aunts Said, “I’ve Run Out Of Pills To Take.”
My Father’S Two Heads.
My Brother Asked Us To Call Him Sisyphus.
In A House That Was My Body Was A Room That Was My Life.
The Detective Knocked On The Door And Asked What Had Happened.
“I Want To One Day Live My Life So I Can Make My Lover’s Psychiatrist Proud.”
Our Stories Repeat Themselves Endlessly Around Us—Ultimately Revising Who We Are Every Time.
Making A List Of All The Lists That Were Made.
This Is The Dawn Of The Rest Of Our Lies.
Birds Never Left The Sky.
The World Of Melted Things.
The Town Determines What This Means.
My Mother Looked Up The Expiration Date For The Holy Water.
We Called The Cellar The Well-Wound.
This Is A Tumble Story.
That Was The Year My Father Fell Out Of The Sky.
I Was Writing A Book Called The Book Of Wonder.
From The Sky: An Echo.
The Trickster Prepares The Maps Of The Imagined World.
I Was Writing a Book Called Rescuers Of Skydivers Search Among The Clouds.
I Strap On These Words
Acknowledgments
