Poetry

Loss and ruin grind under our feet like spilled salt, bad luck sticking to our soles. And joy streaks across the sky, a star burning out. Who knows what will save us? A man yanks the hair of a woman he once covered with kisses. Each kiss was a blossom and he thought he was…

Here are boys, still weak. When they speak                                                                   snow falls from their lips. Pale of hand and cheek, the motors that whirred in their chests have failed. + Their new city—buildings like a scrim                                                                  a god unfurled for them so it waves in the wind. + Lovely, strange, and chill. The boys are…

The heart of the builder the wild talent, the so-called genius of the artist is largely overrated. He has been building walls for 60 years now. Two things are important. Endurance (Strength is useful but overrated; leverage can accomplish at least as much as the imprecision of brute force), and material, the second thing, even…

When I was a Jersey girl I hid my Jersey ways. Predictable as milk, I paled predictably when New Yorkers said: Jersey? and they were right. They despised my yellow Jersey plates, my Garden State cockeyed, solipsistic, anesthetized take on pig farming in that isolate, Secaucus, my bowling with extended family at the Elizabeth Lanes—…

To the locusts that blur the tiny lyres of their shells, I leave my blindness at the end of day. To the distant whistle of the train at dusk, I leave the smoke in a girl’s hair. To days I dipped my body in, I leave my only shadow. To the gravel road that crackles…

set out across the fields anonymous, drawn inward like a sea of dusk beneath the cribbed retreat of sun. Remember us against the vinyl in that summer like an apocalypse across the sheetless rising chipped repeat of artificial light of grocery lists wrung. Last night and last night’s last night you cheat the snow, my…

Halliday’s in Italy and Koch is dead (though I admit Koch never meant much to me). What matters is he made Halliday feel understood in (I imagine) much the way Halliday made me. I read him and knew I was free. A few years later he read me and just often enough responded enthusiastically (all…

Friday night, my divorced brother trying out his new girlfriend on us, the oldies funk band so loud all we can do is dance and wait for a break— she sways, arms tight to her chest, fists shaking imaginary maracas. My brother’s steps have not changed—some vague C & W hip twitch from wife #1….

So hot today I wear my new sandals. It’s been a tough morning at Home Sweet Home, wondering why no one talks about Jesus’ teenage years—was he happy? sad? And why are the steamed tomatoes shelved next to the raisins? Sounds stupid, but I’d like even a glimpse of Plan A. I needed to talk…