Why let it matter so much?: the morning’s morningness, early dark modulating into light and the tall thin spruces jabbing their black outlines at dawn, light touching the slope’s outcroppings of rock and yellow grass, as I sit curled under blankets in the world after the world Descartes shattered, a monstrous fracture like the creek’s…
Listen to me, said the boys’ grandfather. When I was a boy, you had to be smart or you could get hurt. Their grandfather had already sat down in his old swivel chair. He lit one of his cigars and took a big puff. The boys made themselves comfortable on the floor. We milked by…
What had been hovering in the air all evening, there, as near as the other side of the table— No, not a woman, but so like a woman, turning away and smiling privately. More like a man—a group of men— who have found a way to draw the party to them. Meanwhile I sit combing…
Black drape like a solid shadow, as if the shade won’t slide from her. Veil, abstracted hair lifting on the breeze. Around us heels, furs, and scarves like swatches of Las Vegas, a twitch of liner on a pair of eyes, men in the cut of coats, the usual, long-faced inspection…
One morning beginning to notice which thoughts pull the spirit out of the body, which return it. How quietly the abandoned body keens, like a bonsai maple surrounded by her dropped leaves. Rain or objects call the forgotten back: the droplets’ placid girth and weight; the dresser’s lack of ambition. How strange it is…
The infinitive is a conservation law. Not to mention all the other things Without which we would have been lost, Like the diamond engagement ring Or the parsimony of the rich. A different context is a different play. The girl in the coffee shop Was a woman onstage. Timor mortis conturbat me. Philadelphia left me…
It’s mad, but it just might work, he said, and floridly signed his name to The Great Submarine Race. Submarines slumbered in his bloodstream and submarines burbled in shallow slips. The Flying Electrons bore the news around the world on cold white drafts and the news pierced the blue clouds. A man in the square…
Marilyn Hacker, translation of Here There Was Once a Country, poems by Vénus Khoury-Ghata: A searing translation of the poems of a prolific Lebanese writer who has always straddled two cultures, the Arabic and the French. Hacker luminously brings to life Khoury-Ghata’s intimate, mysterious, and unique voice. (Oberlin)
I stroll among wounded merchants’ daughters. What to buy? What to wear? The questions dreadless enough. I take them down from their posts. Heart cuff, woodpecker wing, suit-so-sorry. News of the repeating, damned repeating. Circles the sky. Once I tried crooning and fell apart simply. The girls in slit skirts made an art of revealing….
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