Lori Cayer

Searching for Signal left me breathless. This long poem has nothing — and everything — to do with my or your father.

All of Cayer’s unflinching, spare language, the heft of the silence, is “chokecherry rhubarb when you bit down.” Light a candle in mourning, in celebrations. Set it in the window while you read. Contemplate the depth of “repeating what we don’t know / came before.”

Reflect on your calendar.

Nora Gould