Dara Laine is a poet of grief, memory, and the sacred ordinary

The fridge light blooms in the dark like a wound.
— Pantoum for Leftovers
The cards sit in a drawer,
edges curling inward,
carrying what I couldn’t say.
— Thank-You Cards
Now I speak softly
to the air that listens back.
— 777
No one shouted.
Just hands.
— After the Line