from Back Room Poems
Before the cannon was on the small side,
I knew just how comfortable
an explosion could sound.
Magic begs us
not to call this place a living room,
haunt our children for the right word
for something that tastes bad,
but that we go on eating anyway.
Company? No, that’s not it.
Enormity? Not sure.
When I fell in love
for the first time, people named a sandwich
after me. A sandwich
that I didn’t agree to