Poetry

Already, his abdomen was sculpted, and already the thin trail descending from beneath his belly button. Even now it is difficult to explain it. I was, after all, only 7; I didn’t even know what Turkish meant. In the dead of winter, which only meant certain flowers had ceased blooming on the island, we had…

Against an empty sky, the elm is feathered with gold like some apparent wing. On the dark avenue, people pass, lifting their collars. Through the lit windows, empty stairwells and still pianos. Sparrows drive their hearts into grass. The moon pulls aside its curtain as if someone is peering there. Solitude could not find a…

We were young again. Sex as an act of reverence was not yet even imaginable. There was no such thing . . . The point was to push eventually past mere distraction, to achieve an effacement entirely of what, inside us, we couldn’t bear looking long at, no, not a moment longer, what was pleasure…

Three months after my brother’s death, I saw Uncle Vanya in New York. Near the end of the play, Vanya says he’s forty-seven years old. I’d forgotten that, and the line caught me off-guard. Forty-seven was my brother’s age when he killed himself. I wondered if there was something about being forty-seven—the very beginning of…

Around that time, the city grew quiet. You said Don’t hurt me and I said If I was going to hurt you I’d have done it already. We passed a dying store with gem-like windows. A door that banged in the wind. You said Let me go. As in a film of the apocalypse, a…

It started with herrings, which he ate with warm black bread as a child, and ended with two pigs, the forbidden. It started with the strict dietary laws of his father, a pious Jew, a mender, and ended with ulcers, which he disobeyed. He was snubbed by a bouquet of colorful flowers on a balcony…

Now I see it: a few years To play around while being Bossed around By the taller ones, the ones With the money And more muscle, however Tender or indifferent They might be at being Parents; then off to school And the years of struggle With authority while learning Violent gobs of things one didn’t…

So far the house still is standing. So far the hairline cracks wandering the plaster still debate, in Socratic unhurry, what constitutes a good life. An almost readable language. Like the radio heard while traveling in a foreign country— you know that something important has happened, but not what.

There was a time when I watched it happen. Strangers pressed to other strangers in one bed, clothes on, air humid with the cloying scent of fruit juice and vodka: none of us giving in to another and yet unwilling to leave the scene of that possibility, pretending to sleep, actually sleeping. Then waking again…