Poetry

I am thirty-two, thirty-two times have I passed before the day and hour of my death, as one passes by the door of a house that one will someday live in, without even a thought of glancing at it. —Julian Green, Diary: 1928-1957 It could be empty, windowless, or simply occupied by ghosts, a kind…

My old boyfriend’s fortune cookie read, Your love life is of interest only to yourself. Not news to me. A famous writer once showed me the fortune in his wallet— You must curb your lust for revenge— slapped over his dead mother’s face. After finishing our Chinese meal at that god-forsaken mall, eight of us…

Through the skein of years, I had nothing to fear from this place. How final and brief it would be to disappear from this place. The tangle of driftwood and Coke cans and kelp in the sand made me think of the muddle that drove us (my dear) from this place. An orchard, a vineyard,…

That dog never barked, not a whimper, so it was heaven living next door to Pickwick and his mistress, Elzbieta, the Polish novelist on Brattle Street, my first apartment, my first year out of grad school. Elzbieta escaped the Warsaw ghetto, then worked for the Resistance during the war. What had I accomplished at 24?…

Pain    cloisters            itself deep   in the body like     a ladybug         nestling into a   pinecone. She finds       a pinecone split               in two, its spine         revealed. It is as if she has discovered     her own         corpse. What force could split a pinecone     down the center? Improbable    bolt of lightning, bright finger   of pleasure? Perhaps it has lain there for years The ashes      have drifted She is lost      in the pine forest         of…

On the park bench You turn the page of a travelogue— Henry James is eating the last of a puffy croissant Near the border of Italy and France. A crumb has attached Itself to his beard—oh, the faux pas Of greeting Madame du Coudray, With his top hat coming off, His bow like a bending…

They were in love. This is not a fairytale. She did not offer him a curl as a keepsake.                          Even then she knew, she had nothing worth keeping. They partook of each other           It was not communion.           It was not an offering to the gods. Like starving children, they feasted again and again on nothing….

The party girl was down, The pink chowder of puke Splashed in front, Dizziness like a carnival ride, All because of the slushy drinks Slurped on one of those docked boats On the Thames. Been there, Done that, I thought. I stepped Over her, just a lassie In jeans, her golden hair Lifting slightly, And…

As sunlight or darkness fits itself around lamp, table, or mountain, silence stitches itself around hopes, thoughts, and words. Some hear it the sound of their own speech coming back from when they are dead. Some find it summer-cool pillow, winter wool coat. Some tack their names on its door and step inside. And if…