Quilt. Skillet. Mat. What it says that on that jacket. Teakettle. Key. What I fold. What I flex. My transitive and intransitive agonies. Polish. Peace lily. Spoon. Compassing at. That same tremble. Keep calm and carry on. To lilt. A little bread. The spectacle of longing. Jar. Destinolibro. Los niños tontos. And maybe we are but I don’t care. Cactus. Couch. To couch in such terms. Revised edition. Lemonade. Fresh mint. The Complete Nocturnes. The Food of China. Soap. Glow. My sister at that age. In an empty wine bottle, a dead bee. In an empty coffee cup, a pattern of sediment. In which future. Insulin pump, test strip. Retina. Hemorrhage. Like black ink into a bowl of olive oil. A murmuration of pixels. Baby I may never have, I hold close. Bud vase. Blacken. Balm. Photograph of a woman walking towards. Cuidados intensivos. The Prelude. You shine. La Vita Nuova. I shine with.
Rebecca Lindenberg is the author of Love, an Index and The Logan Notebooks, winner of the 2015 Utah Book Award. She teaches in the Creative Writing program at the University of Cincinnati.