It pushes its way through, a luminous thing. Cactus, radiant with small blunt thorns, sharply glistening column. But also, in a room without walls, a load-bearing wall, a mast without sail on a hovering boat. Straight as a nail, shadowless. It’s my mother’s picture, she took it in the woods. The column was found…
Translated from the Spanish by Jenny Minniti-Shippey The child searches for his voice. (The king of the crickets had it.) In a drop of water, the child searched for his voice. I don’t want it in order to speak; I’ll make with it a ring that will carry my silence on his tiny…
Arms out, our crowd of hands a cage, we take them, hairy and clean. Their fur-rags shake. We look down on their backs and heads. Their faces point up. They can’t see what they look like. Made of heat and sun-stripe, yip and squawk, matted in patterns and wrong-way curls— we’ve been told they have…
From a series documenting several years (1980–2021) of multi-day cycling tours. Slaterville Springs, NY – Ithaca – Syracuse – Seaway Trail – Ogdensburg – Saint-Zotique, QC – Montreal. Home on Amtrak. October 1980; 334 miles. Via Gitane. Pushed up from the south on the Seaway Trail—New York State Route 3—along Lake Ontario, crossing…
Ask her if she is cold. Ask her if she needs to hide. Fold her into a rectangle and slip her into your breast pocket. She will record the auditory data regarding the condition of the heart. Motherdreaming. Mother turning into sleep. Mother changing the channel. Mother turning underwater. M mostly becomes sunflower head bending…
ghost: to die ghost: to haunt ghost: to disappear from all messaging ghost: when sunlight bleaches a photograph ghost: another walks out of a room but leaves a perfume ghost: begin with the G guttural, the tongue lifts to hit the back palate, then the mouth rounds itself around the…
So that you feel the weight of your life, you and the children you do not have you and the children, you and you and the children and you So that your days may be lengthened and tightened by children so that the days of your life may be…
Cool and spooky spillage of cloud at the horizon big vase of light and smoke big white bed sheet that got loose slapping the landscape flat. For dinner there is fried pork, chili beans, spoon bread with butter or cream, potatoes fried with onions, smoking hot. I put the fire out with buttermilk,…
Translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton Macpherson His late style is called baffling, a slap in the face for a public ardent as a pair of worn-out shoes. But the music is tired of reconciliation and seeks refuge in his rage. Let it grind, let it chafe. As when existence contracts in…
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