Every day the boy marks her progress: at the round window, her round eye, the bluebird that scrambled in and out with grass, or moss, with string, hair, wool, the innermost feathers of her breast. And if he's spotted her in the bush or on the wing, he lifts away the front wall of the…
How many times in this family rain have I wanted a sudden shelter, the phone to ring, a blanket of pines 12 feet above my head and growing up thick 50, 60 feet. No rain then would get through. But the heedless rain comes down. The wish for shelter, confused under this flood of water,…
To celebrate twenty years of Ploughshares is to celebrate the idea of our revolving editorship, a series of guest-edited issues directed and moderated by the magazine's staff, with each issue and guest editor speaking to others in the progress of the series. For this issue, with the assistance of Don Lee, our managing editor/associate fiction…
He was to arrive at San Francisco, a six-year-old boy flying from China alone for twenty hours. We went there to meet him, hoping he still remembered us, since he had not seen us for three years. We waited patiently at the airport, till all passengers came through the customs. Did he miss the plane?…
I. Looking everywhere, there's no one around to ease my gloom. I'll make friends with the moon. II. This autumn moon despises one who clouds this sky with teary eyes. III. What can one do? Sigh heavily over the moon, bathed in its beautiful light? Tears, tears and sighs. IV. You stole my heart. Now,…
—The mind asks the question; the heart is hurt by the unknown; you didn't have to take care of the dead one for she could still love what came forth though it seemed to you like suffering— too hard for you? Listen. You don't have to do anything. The raccoon is in the garbage can,…
I don't have any grand theoretical scheme into which I'm going to fit these six poems, but I know the theme I want the sequence to crystallize around. This is the hallucinatory savagery of life in New York City, the spectacular contrasts and the squalor of those caught on the margins. The sequence will also…
bound in friendship nest in a single tree. One watches the world. The other feeds on sweet fruit. The Self, weary of pecking about, sinks into despair. Through meditation, personal self comprehends impersonal self: The Spirit soars! When Sage and Spirit are united, Lingam and yoni, good and evil Vanish: they are one. Only in…
What follows comes late in a book-length sequence of poems, with some interleaved prose, that recounts one imagined life through another. The imagined life is my own, or that of a writing double that insists it is not the workaday figure who answers to my name. The other biography, and the one the sequence is…
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