Poems About L

Monday is the day the world clears its throat and says: again.

The thing about winter is that it's honest. No leaves to hide behind.

The tulips don't know it's still cold. Or they know and they don't care.

The most important conversations of my life happened over food I can't remember and meals I'll never forget.

My hands still set the table for two. Not every night—just Thursdays, when my hands forget

They were not romantic. They were young and poor and armed, which America has always confused with romance.

He doesn't know I keep a list. Not on paper—in the body, in the part that doesn't forget.

There's a song that knows more about your life than your therapist.

The caterpillar is not trying to teach you anything. It's just eating a leaf.

The horse knows something about running that we've forgotten—how the whole body becomes the verb.

Alliteration is the poet's parlor trick—the showy sibling of subtlety, the sequined suit at the serious party.

The strangest part is the ordinary: how the fridge still hums its one note, how the bills arrive