Monday, April 29, 2024


The Interior

A winter night in desert light:

trucks carving out air-corridors

of headlights on the interstate

at intervals only a vigil

could keep. Constellations

so clean you can see

the possibilities denied.

Now, from the beginning

tell me everything.

Stars, Days, Words

We call days what nights leave behind.

My daughter points out the stars to me

(she is sitting on her father's shoulders)

as if I had not seen them before she came

and might have missed them except for her eyes.

You don't need to go far to see the world.

She has words and a sentence or two.

You tell me what's going fast as this.


All I knew was that I would not let them die

alone, the images, the image of the father

with his daughter pulled into his shirt, her head

tucked into his armpit like a lamb

in a description of a shepherd in a novel

by Thomas Hardy, arms around each other

so they would not be separated

if they drowned, but then they drowned.


Katie Peterson

Fog and Smoke

FSG, 2024