Poetry

Translated from the Spanish by Pablo Medina That pasta in cream sauce we made when we finished, that pasta we ate still trembling (we left the water on the stove, on a very low flame, and fifteen minutes before the end you flew, barefoot, and threw it in and barefoot flew back,                                                   remember?) That pasta…

I try not to use a pen that’s too special, writing instead with whatever’s at hand,       in this case a pen from George and Ken’s Collision, where I had my hood repaired.       After paying the deductible, I wasn’t leaving there without a pen, so I slipped this one       into my pocket as…

How did the people realize the steeple needed repair? They prayed below for what stood above. They hired a steeplejack to go and see. Before descending he took a look at the towers of Boston to the north and skyward at contrails of flights. He paused to consider the damage. They prayed against the worst…

You’re kept in capsules on the bathroom counter,  a synthetic strain of vitamin A, sealed for potency. Your purpose is to shield the face from signs of aging. Over-the-counter  lacks the power existing in medical grade—  though too much, over time, can blur the vision,  incite a kind of skin-peeling condition or frail the bones….

Before your birth,                     I marked you as my own, the way I marked                     your mother before hers. Inscribed on every                     cell of every bone, the standard of my family                     never blurs. I coil between the                     makings of your bed and in the small hours                     whisper you awake. I poison every                     sentence in your head and…

Translated from the Spanish by Pablo Medina            A man and a woman walk down the street laughing. They make plans. They had a grand time in the hotel where they made love and they laugh, make another date for tomorrow. Life is wonderful. Tomorrow he’ll be laid out in a funeral home one hour…

Down at the beach. The lake trying to wash the moon off its back. The moon trying to ride the horse of the lake. Me lighting a candle and sticking it in sand. Another. Making a circle for the wind to burn its fingers on. For the moon to read a flickering elegy to itself….

well—i suppose we could spend more time pretending i bought a new suit for carnegie hall—bought a new suit for the occasion, bought a new suit with dues from paris yes it’s true, he pays a price for an america which still leaves a balance. well—i have a future held in the lungs of this…

We were downing cheap red wine at a bar called Library   Books free for the taking The carafe like a blood-filled IV bag I opened a book on palmistry   Lifelines When my words began to slur you took me  to Mickie-Dee’s   A ghoul was there and the grim reaper   Masks on…