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This is how it happened. Spring wore on my nerves— all that wheezing and dripping while others in galoshes reaped compost and seemed enamored most of the time. Why should I be select? I got tired of tearing myself down. Let someone else have the throne of blues for a while, let someone else suffer…
I think you are my son now that I see the stalwart light on your hair, layers of composition, plucked cello wrist, bear down the spine I gave birth to, wracked note and sheet of clearest music, pitch, scale the beating trout under your areole, halo of rainbow, pleat the dear earth of your waist,…
Right up there this side the Five Chimneys Corners about a mile south the Oneida line, this goddamn granddaddy sugar maple block I tell you it's what you might call a real out-size block a old-time ball-busting son of a bitch of a block laying by the side the road where that house with the…
If you could shuck your skin and watch The action from a safe vantage point You might find a weird beaty in this, An egoless moment, but for These young white men at your back. Your dilemma is how to stay away from That three to five second shot On the evening news of the…
On a deceptively mild evening in the fall of 1964, a bomb exploded in Hayes-Bick. It had wobbled in like a rugby ball tossed into a scrum and lay there innocently for a few seconds, as if waiting to be kicked. Then it blew up. Dense, acrid smoke instantly filled the cafeteria. There was no…
You raise your face to kiss me in public— we've never done this! Women before mah-jong customarily press lips, or after a long ordeal—war, torture, childbirth—will lift their countenance to drink that gladness and risk of another woman. So Eve, drawn backwards, kisses her image, water, before the Strong Arm of the Law leads her…
No, it is not suffering that engenders it; it is beyond suffering, The Flower— though it rests beside the tears, the million barricades, fusillade upon fusillade . . . it rests, soft as a fontanel: the poultice, the mother of all fragrance, The Mother ceaselessly whispering without tenderness, we fashion hell, we fashion incoherence. * * …
The dentist looks At my broken mouth The way I'd look At a child who Innocently yells The word “Nigger” Then smiles, a baby Jesus. Is there an alibi For this? That's What I hear beneath Those weekly sighs. Poverty? Child abuse? Look at this, he sighs And gives me The Yiddish word For dirt,…
I’ve been an off-season traveler since my divorce, and this winter I’m in Spain. A man is following me. On the train from Madrid he was a businessman with an eager mustache and samples of his product: copper wires, copper disks, copper beaten into thin, pliable sheets. I took everything he gave me and stuffed…
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