The year no one died, I called you my little skin-walker, my secret satchel of words.
What can’t be fixed by honesty will go unnoticed. Look to where the voice is: an ache in the earth loud enough to be mistaken for regret.
Dearest, it was cutting off your braid that broke the spell—that tiny rattail marked you as mine.
This isn’t one of those things people say like, I miss you. It was never about where the hero went.
Those rabbits we used to see have folded themselves up. The muskmelon might make it through the summer. It’s been ages since I’ve seen blood on the ground.
Dearest, I’ve heard some things are still sacred. I’ve heard a sleeping body is capable of hiding a forest and at least three days of hard rain.
I want you to know, I think it’s okay to plant a garden.
It was always about bearing down, digging in, growing small, sleeping on a bed of rabbit fur.