trans. Greek Martin McKinsey The clouds of the deep cast a spell on you Those pale Erinyes of the mistral Igniting the envy of the flesh But when the sun's unravelers laughed Striving for an earthly pride The infinite's coloring was suddenly yours. Now as a I wander the mountainside Across pinecones strewn by a…
trans. Italian Ruth Felman This day, one of love and laceration so many years ago, finds us walking together, over sand and rocks, your hand helping me in the difficult places and your gaze directing mine toward the high barrier of agaves and reeds, the northeast boundary of the beach. “See,” you say to me,…
My grandfather killed a mule with a hammer, or maybe with a plank, or a stick, maybe it was a horse — the story varied in the telling. If he was planting corn when it happened, it was a mule, and he was plowing the upper slope, west of the house, his overalls stiff to…
The roof of my ski chalet prays for more snow. Some fell last night but lost its virginity at dawn to a skier from Maine. In the distance a mountain shaped like a breast on its chest of state nurses a cloud. And there is a hawk or a dollar the way it flies— over…
for M. A blue vein over fading bone, I kiss your pulse. Whisper becomes breath near tiny hairs. They're tipped, pinpointed like stars in the kind of night that makes me turn, like earth in a backyard garden in early spring. Nights where we ran. Our legs got tangled. They seemed like white roots—feet dangling….
All day we travel from bed to bed, our children clutching home-made bouquets of tulips and jonquils, hyacinth, handfuls of yellow salad from the fields. In Pittsylvania County, our dead face east, my great-grandfather and his sons facing what is now a stranger's farm. One great-uncle chose a separate hill, an absence in the only…
There was no air and then there was nothing else but air. This is called the filling of the lungs for the first time. The irreversible reverse of this is when my mother calls me and says: The flame fell off the candle just like that. And I say, Just like what? And she says,…
The danger in buying used books is the notes people leave in them— like leaves, brittle, and coy. This one, dated 1935, addressed: DARLING, signed: YOURS; apologizes for not being the French edition, DARLING, on the way to France. You are on your way to the coast. I gave you an oversized Russian history, which…
In the still-blistering late afternoon, like currying a horse the rake circled the meadow, the cut grass ridging behind it. This summer, if the weather held, he'd risk a second harvest after years of reinvesting, leaving fallow. These fields were why he farmed— he walked the fenceline like a man in love. The animals were…
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