Because we cannot be together we live in six notes of Vietnamese where no one can understand us except those who speak in tongues and the language of birds Because we cannot be together we boil the root of the telephone cords torn from the black soils of sleep hold negatives up to the light…
for Chris I’m a penny fallen from heaven’s corner pocket, anybody’s overcoat, pick me up and I’ll bring you all kinds of luck. I’m a fence burning down, love locked in a box, I’m a map of hand-me-down tomorrows, the last but one, or anywhere you never wanted to go, but now. I’m a clock…
Robert Boswell, American Owned Love, a novel: In his fourth novel, Boswell examines the unique border culture along the Rio Grande, unforgettably weaving together disparate people-Anglos, Mexicans, lovers, children-as they wade through this particular world’s infinite possibilities and strangeness. (Knopf)
I am the blue woman stroking a beaded earring searching for the right song at the red light blue woman, 107 degrees, mesquite trees fingering the winds skirts of dust blown back like Marilyn Monroe I am the blue woman wanting a new lipstick some comprehension of Rwanda an hour of silence so cool and…
We were both sitting in old-fashioned green metal lawn chairs that rocked back gently on metal tube frames if you wanted them to, and I did. I rocked as I sipped the strong, lemony tea up through the straw, hoping Mrs. Eelpout would tell me a story. She was sniffling, still getting used to the…
Maxine Kumin, Selected Poems 1960-1990, poems: A rich and varied selection of poems from nine previous collections, spanning three decades of work. Kumin’s voice is full of strength and grace as she meditates on her New Hampshire farm, her family, and the natural world. (Norton)
apprenticeship The difference is always road and you can measure it with rocks or spiders. The street signs are blue, the poor lie naked in the parks. The work of fire never ends and angels build cities of grass. Someone will follow a bird to a forest where child twins are slain. No king…
Don’t think that being a left-handed nightingale was all legerdemain or that I am that small angry bastard who hates whores, only I disguised it by laughing; or that it’s easy leaving a restaurant by yourself and holding your other hand against the bricks to keep from falling; or anybody can play the harp, or…
Philip Levine, Unselected Poems, poems: This provocative, quirky volume collects the best of Levine’s work-some of his favorites-that he was unable to include in his New Selected Poems, which is now out of print, and in his previous three books. (Greenhouse Review)
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