Poetry

God works in mysterious ways, Father said, but He’s not half as mysterious as your mother. He said, Let there be light. And there was light. I don’t see anything mysterious about that. He did what He said He’d do. Your mother says, Let’s not be late for the movie. Yet she takes so long…

I was left out I was chosen second & then left out I was left handed I was left to fend for myself I was the second in command I was the second in line I came without directions                             * I want the milk I want my first pick I want choice & all…

for Raul Acero Secure the base So the flesh will have something To cling to; wrap wire Around the wood and Fill with clay, liberally; No, continue to add Clay—more than it seems You will ever need for his Indented cheeks—and slap More onto the base of the skull; Don’t forget the constellation Of bones…

“Packs well,” she says, forming in ungloved hands snowballs, lopsided, roughly made, and calls her big-boned shepherd and my scruffy mutt to catch each high underhanded toss. They make us laugh as they leap to mouth midair those cold nothings. A chew, swallow, or spit and, ready for the next gift, they sit to watch…

My brother went to Indiana and came back dead. From the ice-blasted plains he wrote me one letter. “Class is hard. My roommate smells like a horse. I have a job as a security guard. A car would be good. Send curry.” My mother sent the chicken dripping onto plastic in a box; the car…

translated by Marilyn Hacker He wants to have The operation but He’s crazy The doctors are Crazy and then Raising her voice to The heavens she told him Never! He just needs simple Cucumber compresses A lot of love Anyway if he dies She’ll kill herself.

    I imagine he’s sitting nearby like a Sufi on a roof, hollow-eyed,     intense, burning at midnight. Something snaps. He has learned     the art of breaking, & being broken. His call is naked as a needle, sharp     as images he sorts from afterimages, arranging them like flames. In the pines     he…

Is there a print left by the toes upon the umbered surface of the stone on which the farmer’s daughter stepped in the springtime to reach the top of the fence between the cornfield and the water meadow— I would like to have inquired whether somewhere there does not remain the trace of her delicate…

And this time when she asks, The world will end, won’t it? a black river of crows will be rowing out above you, heavy oilcloth of wings working over slanted roofs, dark tents of sycamore. She will tilt her small head skyward. So that watching her, you could almost glimpse the secret greed of time…