Your husband’s ghost wrestles an Iberian Ibex outside your house. He sports three bellies these days, including the two protruding from the sides.

We put a trash bag over his head.
He’s a more acceptable punching bag
when he doesn’t have a face.

I lay my mosquito gnawed neck on the rusty railroad tracks and yank down my tighty-whities.

Ten years of living with Parkinson’s led to a stroke induced coma, brain surgery, half a year of rehabilitation and seriously impaired motor skills.

These winter days
the bedroom mirror reflects Agnes
and my face, hard, mouth tight.

My cat stops covering her shit
at the same time
I stop brushing my teeth.

Her dress.

A first-degree murder of crows perched on skeleton limbs.

documents

discovered

in DC

correct historical

inaccuracies

My Abuelo said, “Pepino Cuevas hits como un burro.”
My Abuelo’s fists were full mugs of lager at the cantina.

My daughter says my mind is sliding
words lost at sea, snagged in seaweed