It’s a pious coil? It could be But you wait to be sure. Your hair blown back by Hope and teased by failure, You grope the lone desert for Sorts. You feel you know Pubic Hair. You want to sing The correlations between mosquito bites. You want to do math The way bricks do…
She hears the bear outside her dream-the charred corpse driving her away from a flaming city-before she wakes up. She has never seen a bear, except in a zoo, but she does not extricate her body from the boiling quilt or crawl to the window. Midnight in this national forest feels dangerous to her, too…
The six directions which form a sheep are proof enough of Plan. Plain to see why the head belongs on top: to view the view. And why The ewe must brace her hooves against the earth. The belly Rides beneath the back, to ease digestion on its downward tract. As teats…
Heather McHugh is wired. She is also wireless (see laptop, below), wry, and webbed (spondee.com). She speaks in passionate flurries, seriocomic riffs that only begin to reflect her speed of thought. She annotates as she speaks, offering first and second answers, embellishing and revising and punning. Words are her sparks and her flame. “As the…
translated by Marilyn Hacker Nothing disturbs the duck on the pond’s edge Either at sunrise or at dusk Nor those others placed in the abundant hair Which spreads its auburn rust in constellations On the pond’s surface, tepid stars Swarming in the hemisphere of cold Time breeds like this too, spreads out Across the stillness….
It was Thanksgiving Day and hot, because this was New Orleans; they were driving uptown to have dinner with strangers. Ella pushed at her loose tooth with the tip of her tongue and fanned her legs with the hem of her velvet dress. On the seat beside her, Benjamin fidgeted with his shirt buttons. He…
There was a stare (yes, was) right here (hope it finds me). Right where the moon blared down its tinny gap. Prevalent predator. Originating—where? Smoke and opal, compressed to a null. Hey orb, what lives in that shell heath, shriek shack? Hey bleach-blink, sheen-gaze, pearl-pith—root of worlds. Splinter in the void’s eye, orphan. Got a…
I’m smoking a cigarette and having a drink with the only woman who’s right for me. I’m telling her a joke that isn’t that funny but we laugh anyway as if it were, and then it is. Ideal forms are everywhere, the chairs on which we sit, the windows to our left and right, our…
for Roger Erickson Language, I have wanted you to have a body that knows itself; I have wished you could sing in the tempo of my last inclination. I have wanted you made of metal or oil, or soil— I have wanted. I have wanted. Language, it has taken years, but I have made my…
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