Appear through the window atop a ridge painted with glass like stars twice their size others live in differing sounds. The trees shake, heavy and bearable releasing all their frugal light green leaves blotted with ovary ashes resting upon pale faces. The wall is a home of stars.
This is about how our father dealt with a chicken-killing dog. No way could she hide from him. He saw red feathers dangling from her black lips and found the plump body stashed behind the woodpile. He whistled, Some enchanted evening, you will meet a stranger, while uncoiling the twine, and with infinite gentleness, he tied the limp hen around… Read more →
My mother didn’t go outside for a year. Under the wide ceiling sky, each step was a climb up Mt. Everest. The bag on her walker carried all travel necessities: phone, pouch of unscented tissues, lipstick, maybe a bottle of water. Unlike me and unlike earlier, she didn’t hanker for the street or its tributaries. Sometimes a hint of longing… Read more →
In the stories, my prayer is the lost darkness of language. In the darkness, the moon carries her heavy belly across the sky before settling back in the home we share. In our home we are always found wanting. Wanting, we sing the songs our mothers taught us to remember we have no mothers. No woman wants to be made… Read more →
All these false endings. Nothing can (what’s a body, what’s a body to break up on): rocks, story of the buckeye butterfly’s eternal detail–I broke my abacus toting up your every spot dash & line darling.
Coordinated invasion “hold her head” Send you flowers on the eve of your departure The superior view sunders the walls that were You: what rules is lure of earth.
With your passport to the dream you can enter & depart * Well. This would have bored you already, murmur music, mystic tornado chasing– You’d yawn, asking, whose have I become? why do I work now in your dreams instead of my own. The making ephemeral: New York to London in 45 minutes– So much for… Read more →
ūnus Body: boneless muscle with three hearts, the beak of a venomous parrot, and a siphon. Ink sacs, pupils that follow the horizon of the ocean; intelligent melanin to re-image lion-fish, coral, rock, eel; tongue-suckers, sense-grips to hold and taste and hold and taste but not to feel, o octopodiformes. duo Intelligence and sensation: not to be tricked by screw-top… Read more →
In my poem of wisdom I’m a tree. I don’t care if I’m original. I don’t care if I’m everybody’s image. I grow out of stone. I stand in a wide field. And when they hang the rope from me I’m the same tree. And the girl Who never weeps does not weep. That, too, is okay. One day I… Read more →
Of course, my timepiece was made out of scissors and you cut the hands with still more hands. You knew I was hankering for a pale rose or a nose- gay to stitch along a minor work of Pliny* at, say, dusk? Of course,… Read more →