Poetry

When I was ten (no, younger than that), my mother tried to kill herself (without the facts there can’t be faith). One death or another every day, Tanqueray bottles halo the bed and she won’t wake up all weekend. In the myth book’s color illustration, the poet turns around inside the mouth of hell to…

Percussion at bedtime! A fist-sized rock, well-aimed, wrecked two windowpanes and missile-cruised my living room, bestowing transparent sharpness; ricocheted; reposed on a walnut bookshelf thick with history (the Black Jacobins, class war in ancient Greece). Glittering quills adorned a potted palm. The projectile excited scrutiny: its mongrel shape lopsided— round, then sharp; its colors muddy,…

I’m up in Squaw Valley—yes the name is utterly inappropriate in these late twentieth-century days, but hey, history isn’t pretty especially place names. Monument Valley has no monuments The Eiffel Tower or Tour Eiffel just stands there squat on the ground, then rises grid and girders. The difference between New York and Paris is landmarks….

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.