Poetry

    She tells me, “It smells like your mother” as we enter room 53 (twin beds, bath, 95 euros)         of the Hôtel Jeanne d’Arc in Paris, and it’s true,     there’s a heavy though not displeasing scent of lilac face powder of the kind used         by old Southern ladies of a certain generation….

If description could outpace effusions of feeling, serif or sans serif, punctuated with dashes and in Amherst, could one say it was a peculiar summer. I tried to like what I’d always liked and tried to get there sooner rather than later. I’d forgotten I liked orange until on a scale of one to ten…

His music, Charles writes, makes us avoidable. I write: emissary of evening. We’re writing poems about last night’s bat. Charles has stripped the scene to lyric, while I’m filling in the tale: how, when we emerged from the inn, an unassuming place in the countryside near Hoarwithy, not far from the River Wye, two twilight…

No waste of shame, no wilting of the flower, the stick shall not break, the bat shall not splinter, no friend will wake, no end of winter; nor remembrance of splendor to counter the paper bull’s power will cover the lake with ice when gamblers spill the dice: the mirror shall not tilt, the quick…

a man sitting across from me in a French restaurant in New York City a name is a word is the first form of domestication an explanation of the secret language he spoke with his father in the marketplace in la Villette: lincsé for five francs, larante for forty and the word for money, le…

—after the slaying of thirty-eight children at the church wall of Candelária The women would come in Chevrolets with soup in tins for the children. The women would come in Chevrolets, tin within tin, for the children. The children nearly sleepwalk in the exhaust. They are lost dragging their blankets through the long pepper fog…

translated by Ralph Angel to Manuel Torres, “Niño de Jerez,” who has the body of a Pharaoh Portrait of Silverio Franconetti Between Italian and flamenco, how would that Silverio have sung? The thick honey of Italy, mixed with our lemon, flowed through the deep wail of his siguiriya. His cry was terrifying. The old folk…

Paper boat on a dark stream— Put a candle inside the boat and let that stand for woman, and let the water stand for man. Downstream the willow lets down her green tresses. The water sings as it moves, inexorable, past the banks sodden and rank with mud. The candle makes a chapel of light….

after the Gawain poet Like Jonas by the fish was I received by it, swung and swept in the dark waters, driven to the deeps by it and beyond many rocks; the winds on the one water wrestled together. Without any touching of its teeth I tumbled into it and without more struggle than a…