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from Seven Mediterraneans The dreamer had heard what she thought was a rumor about someone she didn’t know wanting to have sex with her. This after several months of trying to have sex with Janine, who was in the painting group-they all took turns posing for gesture drawings-right before the weather changed to rain along…
Dream of the bitter greenish flesh of a tiny orange tree we grew upstairs in our bow window: I am eight or nine. In life, I hoped the flesh would end up sweet the way the fist-sized oranges in grocery bags turn sweet, the way bought fruit does almost always. But in my dream I…
Poor Lorca, what a sissy, his whole life he knew this was coming and still he looks like an idiot, suddenly he stops defanging the piano in his underwear and gets all morbid, embarrassing the diplomats. He asks his parents for more money for a silver pant leg, wristwatches to fill a fishbowl, and then…
I picked these poems, and, except for a few instances, the editors of Ploughshares picked the prose. I picked these poems for the same reasons most readers linger on poems when they come upon them, reasons similar in spirit, no doubt, to those given by most writers invited to guest-edit these pages. I hope those…
Widening line of light What isn’t inked (“the area of its competence A visit to the morgue at night? (Averse?) Traversed By the frame A hand (reaching in? withdrawing (From outside To lift (this sheet) Sheer homesickness—the text * Awoke a serial homesickness (the text) for a place you lived in—off and…
So I went out into the nervous system of the air— Bearing beneath my lettrist overcoat my village The monumental city long ago breathed in And held Went out into the signal and static— Rivermutter steeplebell and traffic—net of noise Knotted by sirens Into the brutal red dream Of the collective—humming there behind…
—odor of hot stone, like a sibyl ironing, is it not so, her duns and indigos . . . odor of love sea ammonia —a licknut leaf diving out after boyish pleasures, as Apollo hung out whole days with Hyacinthus—jack-juice outlaws: one of them the green sometimes seen in…
The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare; Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away: -“The Hosting of the Sidhe,” W. B. Yeats My mother spoke with the dead. After the doctors declared her cancer-free, she could feel and hear their ghosts, see them as clear as…
Yesterday’s snow falling again and already. Falling steadily among the vowels, the tall consonants. Alertnesses scumbling among the cabbages. The eyebrowed jay named by a man named for a star. Stellar’s. When I say the word the pleasure happens on my palate and I am never the same person again. Smoke. Granular. Piñon. Clouds slumping…
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