The thick humidity means nothing, my nostalgia even less. The dip and throaty call of goldfinch and oriole, fallen blooms strewn on the ground commemorate the ease of mere detail. But that strong and lingering scent distracts me from the tree-lined road to a saddled mare and her foal taking boys through their paces in…
The boy, missing the city intensely at this moment, Mopes and sulks at the window. There's the first owl now, quite near, But the boy hardly notices. And the kerosene lamp Goes on sputtering, giving off vague medicinal fumes That make him think of sick-rooms. He has been memorizing ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol,’ but…
She’s supposed to be land clearing Heaping the brush to be burned in first snow But the pale yellow ghost of the tall Summer grasses she sweeps down Is instead caught in her hand And placed that way in a kitchen vase Showing a warmth to last us thru winter
My mother had been a debutante. She had renounced her frivolous nature when she met my father, who was a scholar, and had once demonstrated to her the purity of his soul by pronouncing boogie woogie with soft g's. They rushed to get married before the war because they assumed he would be sent abroad….
In the first dream she is the enemy — spangled in love’s armor, wearing the sweater she knitted for him, and she looks prettier than in the photo you discover in his bottom drawer that puts her in perspective — all scowls and squinting at the sun, unflattering as he has captured her. Possession is…
The train is crossing a river in a city where everything’s a shade of brown, though it’s June, but when I look out a pleasure boat tilts by, making a wake that resembles a triangular scarf: flat and silver, following the boat like a thing. Looking: it’s optional and safe the sense with a lid…
Put no trust in nothing, not even yourself Yesterday was like summer, today snow blows I’ve walked six miles with an axe and wedge Actually make my living near a river that runs bright water Home to a small hawk found mangled in the woodshed Eyes opening, I load my rifle but won’t use it…
"Hurry up! Can't you drive any faster?" "I do and we'll land in a ditch!" A madeup moon, my mother's frantic face, bobbed over the gray upholstery horizon of the Studebaker seat. "You, Bette! Move your head! Your neck's not stiff, is it? Is it?" "Now take it easy, honey," my father's voice soothed. "Take…
negotiate their way across a frozen lake, careful not to touch, careful not to upset each other’s balance. The house is quiet; I have been thinking about them all evening and now, my window spills across the ice the narrow path of light they are walking on. It’s hard to see but I think the…
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