I’ve moved out of the apartment I lived in for two years and put my things in storage. Despite my efforts to pare down The Stuff I am still swimming in it. Ridding the self of things takes some time. My struggles to let go of belongings overwhelm me sometimes and then I think of those who have lost everything in the south due to the tornadoes: my struggles, they are small, so very.

I am tending the garden of dear friends in exchange for a place to sleep. Dear Trudes is visiting Uncle Nando for the month on the other side of town. She has taken to sitting in her hunker-down pose under his bed. All of this moving and change must be stressful on her, but she is resilient. My girl.

In a phone conversation I had a few days ago, F. mentioned we are all taking care of each other. I felt the full weight of this statement last night, sitting in the garden with a book, using the last of the daylight while I could. I had been distracted by the sky, that Arizona sunset pink-sherbet blush at 7:30 pm. It was quiet and I began to cry. We are all taking care of each other, in our own ways. We are taking care.

& the book—Sharon Olds’ Satan Says, her first book—goodness. I have so much more reading to do. So many opportunities to be stunned in the pink light.

There is so much to tell you. I am teaching an online poetry class this month, too. My mind is already filled with ideas, ways to use the technology to our advantage. Online is not ideal; it will never take the place of face-to-face workshop. But we will make it work.

I have an interview for adjunct teaching work tomorrow. I’m glad I set aside a pair of heels when I packed. It will be fun to hit the road, drive to a different town, and talk about something I love doing.

Look at these garden vegetables. This morning’s bounty: 4 crookneck squash, 3 eggplant, 13 string beans. I get to eat them. Already I am thinking this is what I want in my life. I want to teach creative writing and I want to come home to a garden.

When you visit, please excuse the fly heads
that stud the carpet like poppy seeds—
Gertrude cannot stop with the gymnastics.
Her instinct to stalk small air creatures &
feel them move in her mouth is too strong. There
are so many compound eyes hidden in the pile.

–

Before you visit, pack the following:
an acre of chocolate-dark soil, a wooden
porch swing, twine for the string beans,
green glass bottles of beer, the books, a house
we can paint & is therefore ours, & of course
your hands. Come here. No need to bring shoes.

Up early to finish Week 6 of the Couch-to-5k program.
This song makes me miss 90.5 WBER.
Good morning.

Don’t look at the time
until you pass
the Heck Point twice,
that blue metal sign
with the C shaved off
at the base of the bridge—
thank you, dear sweet
desert children
with ready jackknives.
I laugh at your handiwork
every time & the sound of it
keens at my very feet.

Place your thumb at the base of my throat
to feel how hard my blood runs now & for the rest
of the day. It furthers one to abide
in what endures. Even the mockingbirds
promise to let me sleep if I stay
for a little while longer, in the while.

–

Drink up, you. Drink up, basil & squash.
When the desert heat makes our bellies ache
we’ll go running at four in the morning,
take the coldest showers we can find & scream
WAHE GURU when the water hits our limbs, oh—
your love will be safe with me.

The axletrees are taken from the wagon—Wait.
I am aware of the cat hair on the shower curtain
& will wind packing tape into a sticky club
to remove it when I am through shaking
last night’s dream of a legless woman
beating her child against a window.

–

I am almost too afraid to rest
my head tonight. Please forgive me
for asking you to keep talking.
See the mint on the sill rooting
in its jar of water—we
are never so perfectly alone.

After three years I still expect storms
when the sky rashes. Remember: when
basting pears in the oven it is best to move
your brush with all the kindness
in your heart—even if the deep meat
of the fruit begs for more.

–

The scar makes a good story to tell
under the lean-to. In the heat
of the afternoon you see a bird
in the new skin on my forearm
& trace its purple beak. But what
of the other faces you see in it?

P’s poem about baking spiders reminds me
I have not yet felt the weight of many latitudes.
When are we going. When are we not. In my dream
I tell a neighbor girl I am staying in Arizona
for another year—another year, Annabel!
& she says it’s Ennebel with an e.

–

Also: us in sweaters walking the lip
of a concrete bridge, our thick-knit arms
out for balance, walking our lips toward
each other slowly. When you layer me,
I sweat into the lake & the few fish
that live there are suddenly relieved.