print previewback KRISTINA FAUST
A Record of Us
There’s always a right thing
to do, I speculate, folding
the underwear of a nine-year-old
midmorning. I know better
than to throw away apple seeds
when I find them
set aside in a dish, even though
the number of trees we’ve planted
is none. The cleaning woman
left for Florida, crying and
thanking me. All I ever did
was pay her and buy more
blanqueador. I wanted
to ask: Was this your
favorite house? 
The Bus of Mrs. M.
Fressenstille
A Record of Us