The mother spreads her arms and waits — hoping
at the top of a hill — for a mend
in the empty break of sky.
–from “Sewing Feathers” (read the full poem in Waxwing).
We lived our first existence as if on an island —
the waving flag of a companionship
–from “After the Miscarriage II” (read the full poem in Waxwing).