I left the road where a stile entered the wood. Branches in their shadow everywhere, the trees standing close in their own flour. Face to face with a mouse body on a patch of bark—the shape small, the wings flat—inverted and staring. Meant to be half seen, quick in the last light: little leather angel…
I kept going into that unlikely tavern even after it closed for drinking. Something about the beer-breath ache that haloed the memory of my dead father and the past-before-I-knew-him of my dead husband. But beyond this the chancy air that something in my future might be dislodged and pinballed by its very defunctness into fresh…
“The Candle” is the most recent of my Holocaust poems. Eventually, I hope to revise and expand Erika (1984), which itself grew from The Swastika Poems (1977). I did not know that “The Candle” would come to do what it set out to deny. Its speaker, the jaded and cynical and frightened self I was…
My senses tired and turning toward sleep, your shoulder sleeping distinct in my hand. My thoughts disordered and lapped in fur.
I am never home when he knocks his speculum against my breastbone. It would be fair to say I have developed an immunity against his furtive questionings and gougings. All our interviews are conducted through the keyhole which reduces or enlarges him to a button with a hyphen of thread linking two black nostrils. He…
Like you I drive my ten thousand American miles a year burning fossil fuels (conversion to a ton or two of carbon) but maybe unlike you I peer into my rearview mirror imagining air filled with insects & plants maybe Triassic dinosaurs turtles Devonian dragonflies…
Her heels tapped on the tiles and she knelt at the money-box in the candle-light beside me, at the Body with woman feet. A spear at her whisper pierced my side, her head bent, her meat sweet.
My friend April Fallon tells me that blood on the exterior of the brain is cooler than that in the interior and that it's in the cooler blood that dreams reside. What do you think? Do you love the head as much as I do? That calcareous shell, the stoniest part of the body. And…
Il grande tetto où picoraient des focs è un'immagine idillica del mare. Oggi la linea dell'orizzonte è scura e la proda ribolle come una pentola. Quando di qui passarono le grandi locomotive, Bellerofonte, Orione i loro nomi, tutte le forme erano liquescenti per sovrappiù di giovinezza e il vento più violento era ancora una carezza….
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