Lenore Weiss

Dry grass falls down the hill like an old man’s whiskers sticking out every which-way; I’m driving on the road where fog roosts in branches until it warms up later

Ever since Christmas, malls have knocked off 20 percent from their original reduced prices. I hear Dean Martin crooning, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” his voice still trapped in rotation

I met you two hours after you were born Wrapped in a tortilla’s worth of blankets, An infant with bloodlines from three continents Who rests in my arms registering First

I distill these moments from paged memory and expand my soul before the air runs out.

This week I didn’t need my GPS device to find my way to the office. Instead I watched clouds cast shadows over the foothills, the hide of a prehistoric animal

We watch the news like everyone else, and read online like everyone else, and hear the same story like everyone else, but we’re not everyone else because my husband is