“I wrote all the poems of Death Styles on the shockwave of catastrophic grief, trying to understand the physics of my new, confounding planet, a planet clammy with calamity, with weed beds and reed beds, NICU wards, of cause decoupled from event. I think of irreparability, a loss that runs only one way, converting my skull to a locked vault, a cave. Can you witness absence? How does the individual body, immobilized by calamity, become a place to which sound and consequence flood?”