“Someone stole my name,” a girl sobs, pigtails cinched with blue rubber bands. I want to name the bus we wait for, Huff, the wind, What? Inferno, sigh the fried potatoes whose scent drifts in from a luncheonette. Who stole the land where potatoes first were sown? Who stole the vernacular of ancestors? And that…
She’s in the purple cone flowers, in the yarrow turning brown, nodding to lemon lilies. I hear her slighting a neighbor: “She’s flat as an ironing board.” Nana hands me an iron. “Get your head out of those books, they’ll fill you up with words.” She’s in my word pie, my alphabet soup. The day…
We refused to obey the law and scatter your ashes a full mile offshore: you had asked for the tiderocks— chain of islets, really, off the point, where the sea explodes most crystalline; but walkable at low water— after a handful were buried on my father’s grave. What childhood foot-memory kept me steady, the square…
Things that can turn to shrapnel: Steel and stone. Crockery. Wood. Glass. And bone.
Red houses, white houses, drawing our curtains against the spectacle of each other washing dishes and trimming the dog’s nails. Now and then we exchange news. Life’s gotten harder, easier, nobody this week has tied a noose in the master bedroom, or watched his bed flame on the lawn. Nobody in a black auto pulls…
Pressed between print, haunting gutters, we traded closeness for dialogue and plot, dropped concordantly to sleep not long before dawn, hardbacks propped on our chests like tents on a plain in Cooper. Wingless, piscatorial, we dined on starches and molds, slid into cracks, crevices, bathtubs on occasion. Troubled to escape their slick, enameled palisades, we…
Coming to scrub the fourth corner, chip loose paint off cement stuck with old stones, I wonder who wrote in pencil ace, yummy!—and why? Yesterday, pushing a broom into the struts under the stairs, I clinked on an old bottle of bath oil, labeled in deco style. Thirty years in this house. I’ve touched the…
A Godly life would be the best, If it could be lived, so would Eden, If we had stayed there. Meanwhile we can choose a Godly life. For Eden is still burning, And the air scorches our lungs, Our tongues, our young, and yet, Another Eden remains a possibility. To live for others, To pray…
The twist of the stream was inscrutable. It was a seemingly run-of-the-mill stream that flowed for several miles by the side of Route 302 in northern Vermont— and presumably does still—but I’ve not been back there for what seems like a long time. I have it in my mind’s eye, the way one crested a…
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