It was her voice that made the sky acutest at its vanishing. “The Idea of Order at Key West”. I learned it in art class, second grade, how to make my crayon portraits of our house, posted by Mother
If I wake at 3, ephemerality Is leitmotif. Small wonder in that, of course: Tempus fugit. The years go hurtling by. Like any other bromides, these became What they are for their truth. It’s only a vapor, Say, that version
Some Propositions with Children The child is completely immersed in childhood the child doesn’t know what to do with childhood the child coincides with childhood the child lets childhood invade him like sleep his head falls and he’s adrift
i. Five years of nothing. Then, one night she calls and tells: she followed him, and “sure enough he visited my so-called friend, Charise.” I have my own failed marriage story. She’s heard. But she’s not calling to commiserate.
LONG AFTER HE IS GONE All the summer’s night I dream I am awake reading, following sentences that follow a woman who finds her husband by following his footsteps in snow. She needs to forgive him, to be forgiven.
My mother & the other ladies lie prone in plastic yellow and green lounge chairs on our front lawn. Tin foil reflectors emanate from their necks like limbs. Baby oil–smeared on their faces and arms. They glow, glow, glow in
A jostle of stars at the edge of the Crab Nebula pinpoints the heart of Taurus. Under the right conditions, with a steady hand, you can see it with binoculars. As with most things, the conditions are rarely right, the
“The face of the Buddha’s so smooth,” she whispered, running her hands over the garden statue, “except for these little indentations here and there where the stone’s been chipped.” That was her way with almost everything: first look, then close
FAMILY BATTLES 1. Christmas 1964 My uncle stares at the TV throughout Our midday feast, erupts with “Fucking Krauts” Three times, which I’ll repeat on the way home And be spanked, my Barbie taken from me. We didn’t often
The racket of birdsong wakes me at 4am, before first light. “Music in the Morning” on WGBH regularly opened with five minutes of recorded birdsong, beginning with one or two birds, then growing to a chorus of warbles, cries,
—a white creamy substance found inside limestone caves. Being soft, cave milk was frequently the medium for finger fluting, a form of prehistoric art. How can it be Tomaz? How is it We find ourselves within this landscape Of
Wrath You had always expected a sonnet from me You’d laugh if I would talk about pantoums Who cares what you think about this poem You weren’t there to raise my first child were you You’d laugh if I
Sunlit & dangerous, this country road. We are follicle & meat & terror & the machines leave their shells naked on the ground. One soldier makes a museum in his basement. Each mannequin in brass, unburnable coats: I am walking
walls one morning without shadows in the blue grass the walls will have an evening a vanished day their dead gates – no coming and going no eyes that meet birds flying over land in nets invisible they will sing