Apocalyptic Love Song Longing lengthens. The heart muscles over. What in the world is not a force of its own reckoning. We worship the sheen on the surface of the same lake that let our girls drown. How easily we trade our own breath for
The planets rise like white spots in the purple
evening sticking out like a child’s tongue
for a doctor to hold the moonlight to.
In eternity, everything is healthy, but here
even a good family must struggle to get along.
The ocean’s great to look at
because there’s enough of it.
In this volume, the personal is always at war with the political, and boundaries – both geographical and personal— are often blurred, bombarded, beset.
Do they leave together, the language and the last breath?
Maamwimaajaan ina Anishinaabemoyaanh miinwaa neseyaanh?