OUR HOMES ON THE SAME STREET
The shy distance between two points
where a needle takes the inner arm
Hair grown around the watering hole,
Our picnics consist of ultimatums:
the legs of insects are spoils closed
There's adequate water for the journey,
The early drafts of this poem are alarmingly similar to the version here—it was a productive, if miserable, summer. The title is a variation of a quote that appeared in the Reetika Vazirani profile from Poets & Writers, an issue I'd saved for one reason or another, and later read and reread after her death, as if searching for a clue.