I do not want to surprise you in a poemI am not an entertainerCall me a bad writer evenI express my thoughtsin paperand if they are boring it is okthey are genuineand mine.

    She suckles from plastic,not wrinkled flesh—no heartbeat beneath the skinof this quart-sized bottle,no mother’s trusting nudgeto steady her trembling steps.Her eyes,the bluest brown,still too young to carrythe weight of memory,search for allthat will never return—a shape, a scent,a trumpet...