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…
Adultery is wrong because injustice is done to the beloved. Fucking has nothing to do with it. We don't fuck, anyway. Winging it, maybe, Lilith to Eve. This is stern stuff: the boundaries breaking your voice, your mouth on my mind—wildfire eyes! The sisters are doing it for themselves, uh-huh, un-huh, Aretha sings. belts out…
Where do I find Jesus, he asked the operator. She gave him the number she'd seen on TV, and now he's saved in San Francisco, but listen, folks, we're in this soup together. Last night the car seat burned. Then the zoo, the bears, and lastly the kitchen, and I was afraid. Love's doing well…
Who owned anything that afternoon? All but one small pack— even the man I should have been in love with— left on the train without me. I sat, ordered up a sweet brown Pelforth. After all, I could not be sadder than I could. In the café de la gare in a town called Foix…
As a baby, my father claimed, I was a cat. I don't know what hard evidence he had, but at one time I played along with him to the extent that, when introduced to strangers, I fell on all fours (I'm not proud of this) and said meow. Later I acquired every known cat toy:…
It was only of my studio at Yaddo, a twenty-by-twenty cabin in the woods whose walls are nearly all windows, and all they got was a typewriter and stereo (I say “they” though it may have been one burglar) and something ludicrously cheap, like a stapler, I didn't miss at first and now can't remember,…
He isn't always followed. When it is a crowded museum he is. Yes when it is a dark movie theater. At the racecourse when the interested animal roar Of all the bettors is a phenomenon in his life Someone edges closer from the rear not to his wallet but to him. On days of self-promotion…
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