Poems About L

Dear Will, You've been dead four hundred years and teenagers still have to read you.

The tree is the same tree—same ornaments, same star, same lights that blink like they don't know someone is missing.

You pack what you can carry. Not what you need—what you can carry.

Bring nothing. Bring your body and your coat and a tissue you will find

You don't keep score. That's how I know.

This is for the person who is dying and knows it.

I didn't marry the woman I fell in love with. I married the one who showed up after.

My grandmother's hands were a map of everywhere she'd been.

He doesn't talk about it. This is how you know.

My grandfather could fix anything. The toaster. The fence.

You didn't say the right thing. You didn't say anything. You just showed up with food and sat in my mess like it was your living room.

Mamá es la primera palabra que aprende la boca, y la última que olvida el cuerpo.