my parents taught me to say ‘surrender’
in a dozen foreign languages.

We were listening to the bombing over the radio while my mother drove me to confirmation class that night.  The radio said We as if America was a bunch of siblings who once shared a bed together.

I could take my hands off. Just unlock them at the wrists, snap them off like the heads of artificial flowers. As long as my mouth’s working him, up down up down, he wouldn’t notice if I had no

That winter my mother takes me to her country, a little place on the equator I had not yet seen.

the night of the attack

mother did you hear them
they had tongues like lightning
and forked through the forest
shooting the heads off sparrows.

mother did you see their
bonfires

The man keeps thinking about the power lines—the ones that are strung over his house.

Sometimes at night, he can hear them up there, buzzing.

It's hard to sleep with all the

I don't like most people. And have been jealous of Bud for ages. With reason.

Subtraction, division,

rabbit bones, rabbit lives

They never seemed to notice me, not even when I rolled up my uniform skirt, like the other girls did, and walked the stairs in front of them.

sometimes i wake up in empty fields, waiting for the aliens to take me. they haven’t yet,  but any day now, i’m sure.

I’m in the parking lot, I’ve got Sarah’s prescription, Sarah’s my wife, and I see him.

Osama bin Laden.

“Violent dog,” I said, passing the leash to Karen.

“Just toothy,” Karen said, blotting her knuckle with gauze.  “He’ll live alone.”

We went to the college up north to get away from our families, but we didn’t leave behind our need for something like a domestic bond. 

And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.

Aaina’s mom collects shiny things like a magpie. The one time Aaina sneaked me into her house, I walked past rows of gold photo frames, silver handicraft elephants and raindrop chandeliers.

 Please, I need those thick markers from the craft store, you know, the ones that color far away from each other; you turn the corner into golden golden golden any night

You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.

“I saw you by the river last night,” Amy says, her eyes still closed and half-covered by strands of almond-brown hair. “Why didn’t you follow me?” 

They laid out their sweat-stained clothing while the geyser was quiet, placid. They backed away and waited for her to erupt. 

There was no doubt in Bea’s mind that they referred to the geyser as “she.” 

 It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone,            returned to the God of metals.

Too Tired For Sunshine is a photobook by Hobart's own Tara Wray, to published by Yoffy Press in March 2018.

From the publisher: "In Too Tired for Sunshine, Tara Wray confronts depression by

After being hospitalized in 1968 / for an aortic aneurysm, Rothko’s doctor / prescribed that he only paint and draw / on mediums less than three feet tall.

And what is essential for me to believe is that / the plants themselves were changed by Joan, / that bathing with her in the light and fragrance

spirits in the trees / hush love hush love / go’on fly home

I am glad to report that the Great Iowa State Fair Haiku Contest was a roaring success. 

On this poorly planned excursion I had a bucket of coffee and exactly one CD – my brother’s copy of Death Cab’s then brand new Narrow Stairs.