“The Tooth Fairy” by Dorianne Laux.

They brushed a quarter with glue
and glitter, slipped in on bare
feet, and without waking me
painted rows of delicate gold
footprints on my sheets with a love
so quiet, I still can’t hear it.
My mother must have been
a beauty then, sitting
at the kitchen table with him,
a warm breeze lifting her
embroidered curtains, waiting
for me to fall asleep.
It’s harder to believe
the years that followed, the palms
curled into fists, a floor
of broken dishes, her chain-smoking
through long silences, him
punching holes in his walls.
I can still remember her print
dresses, his checkered taxi, the day
I found her in the closet
with a paring knife, the night
he kicked my sister in the ribs.
He lives alone in Oregon now, dying
of a rare bone disease.
His face stippled gray, his ankles
clotted beneath wool socks.
She’s a nurse on the graveyard shift,
Comes home mornings and calls me.
Drinks her dark beer and goes to bed.
And I still wonder how they did it, slipped
that quarter under my pillow, made those
perfect footprints…
Whenever I visit her, I ask again.
“I don’t know,” she says, rocking, closing
her eyes. “We were as surprised as you.”

“Long Term” by Stephen Dunn.

On this they were in agreement:
everything that can happen between two people
happens after a while

or has been thought about so hard
there’s almost no difference
between desire and deed.

Each day they stayed together, therefore,
was a day of forgiveness, tacit,
no reason to say the words.

It was easy to forgive, so much harder
to be forgiven. The forgiven had to agree
to eat dust in the house of the noble

and both knew this couldn’t go on for long.
The forgiven would need to rise;
the forgiver need to remember the cruelty

in being correct.
Which is why, except in crises,
they spoke about the garden,

what happened at work,
the little ailments and aches
their familiar bodies separately felt.

“Job” by William Baer.

(Job 28:28)
Yes: wisdom begins with fear of the Lord,
which comprehends the power that made the seas,
the earth, the shimmering dawn, the unexplored
unfathomed skies, the moon, and the Pleiades.
Which also know Who comes to judge our shoddy
little failing lives, knowing full well,
we need not fear the one who kills the body,
but only He who condemns the soul to hell.
Which also knows it magnifies the Lord,
defying the demon, being the only release,
oddly enough, from fear, being its own reward,
which is also wise, is faith, is hope, is peace,
is tender mercy, over and over again,
until, at last, is love, is love. Amen.

“Happiness” by Raymond Carver.

So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

“Closet Moths” by Karen Leona Anderson.

Come back tomorrow if you want
to weave your own death.
Today, you can’t: there is the rasp
of mouth-parts opening like Fates,
the click of their trim. Today
is the crab-meat shred of your joints’
old silk, and the sun’s fine fissures
and the porch light burst, and you
can believe the moon is a compass,
fracked by the branches. All your best
rags leak from the closet: distressed
leather, neon-leopards, metallic,
oil-finished, wool pierced at the waist
and bound by pins. What
you thought you should
want. Today that stitch
is cut: you can beat your brain’s
grey wings up and out. Leave
the honey in the rock. Crack
your own heart’s doors. Come together
however you want.

“Apertures” by A. Molotkov.

These are the days when nothing
stays long in our blood. Our hopes

are red rivers that run
into the heart
and die there.

Forgive me if I
wave even if you’re gone. In
our bodies

more is hidden than found. What light
defines this afternoon over the fields

and your eyes?
Tree rings; crow
feet. Red

rivers’ ending. Inside
and outside, vast
distances lie,

unexplored; a single life. The period
after this sentence is

a landmine.

“Things to Think” by Robert Bly.

Think in ways you’ve never thought before.
If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message
Larger than anything you’ve ever heard,
Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.

Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,
Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose
Has risen out of the lake, and he’s carrying on his
A child of your own whom you’ve never seen.

When someone knocks on the door, think that he’s
To give you something large: tell you you’re forgiven,
Or that it’s not necessary to work all the time, or that
Been decided that if you lie down no one will die.

“Time With You” by Gary Soto.

We’re thirteen, almost fourteen,
And so much in love

We want the years to pass—
Clouds roll at super speed, rains fall,

Flowers unfold and die at the snap
Of our fingers. I want to stuff sand

Through a fat hourglass,
And rip the pages from the calendar.

Let me blow candles from my cake.
Let my puppy stretch to full size.

When we turn eighteen,
Time will become a canoe on a still lake.

“Letter From My Grandmother in Tsingtao” by Kristin Chang.

Once in a drought, I dropped
all my children down a well
to make the water rise.

Mothers always choose their own
mouths over mourning. The myth
of hunger begins like this:

in Tsingtao, the German army
stole rice & millet, fed our bodies
to bullets. They built

churches to keep a god & barns
to keep their women. How many girls
can be stolen from

the same body? I sold
myself to a soldier
for the price of a fish.

I gutted out his green eyes,
gave them back to my children.
Even a fish mistakes the sea

for safety, the fisherman’s
hook for god. I raised you like a river
outrunning her land. I nursed you

native to thirst & rain
outsourced from a foreign sky.
I taught you to butcher

a bird & convert its bones
into perches. I taught you
every woman needs

a man like a weapon
needs motive. The nation
I was born in now

belongs to burning. History starts
like a housefire & I braid smoke
into your hair. I once beat you

for forgetting to pray
before bed. Remember
to take the lord’s name

nightly like a pill. Kneel
now & remember I knot
your tongue to mine

so you never drift far
from my hunger. I alphabetize
my gods by country

of origin, America always
first. Daughter, count soldiers
til you sleep. One of them

will hold you by the black
of your hair. One of them
will father you & the other

is your son. There is no ridding
a sheet of blood. Grieve that your eyes
are green. Surrender your skin

fasting into a white flag.