Behind the saints & other tchotchkes, behind the urnstill waiting to receive me— I’ve slipped the summer I scoured Europewith my Death. When I was Death’s best mount, the maremade biddable. Soft-mouthed. Eager to be ridden. In widow’s crepe, how ferociously I courted him,how gladly I amused himin a gown too girlish, the old scums…
When sadness settlesin, more intractable than usual—when it takes more pains to make itselfknown— I tell my sisters not to worry.I will garden the sadness away. I decideon a raised bed, staining the cedar planksI stack into walls that form a newlack. I order loam and compostthe man with the pickup calls gorgeous. Do we…
Long before Francis,St. Isaac of Syria welcomed creaturesgreat and small. My kind of saint,he said that Hell might not last—Godcould end it. What if Isaachad stepped in, held his hand upto my father, said No! Stop! Would Istill be this tree split by lightning,sending out shoots of greenagainst all odds?
1. Shea Stadium In my twenties I used to go to the occasional afternoon game at Shea Stadium. Sometimes the Mets won. Once I ordered a hot dog. The guy next to me, handing my money to the vendor and the hot dog to me in a classic example of the chiasmus, said, “You know,…
One of our two poetry winners is Lo Naylor, for their poem “at the baggage claim in JFK.” This year’s poetry judge was Joshua Bennett. Of Naylor’s poem, he writes: “at the baggage claim in JFK” is a poem that transported me back to a city I’ve loved for as long as I’ve been alive, and…
We pretended not to see him weeping, the fogclotted in his throat. His filthy coat. Someunforeseen disaster always coming for him.He often went missing, fell asleep in the snow.How could we know? We triednot to see him, flinching at the sun, at whateverloomed above him. The fist of the fathercoming down hard on the head…
One of our two poetry winners is Jonathan Wolf, for his poem “The Hog Farm.” This year’s poetry judge was Joshua Bennett. Of Wolf’s poem, he writes: “The Hog Farm” is memorable for many reasons. But it’s primarily the poet’s careful attention to the bond between silence and song that caught my attention. The soundscape here…
At this time of day, goldish-gray rains down and our garden plot turns to mud.I forgot to plant anything this year, but it’s totally fine because I saw a headline, Honey Bees Are Not At Risk of Extinction. For this, I praise last year’s plumeof borage, chamomile, salvia. So this is how things will be…
Whose rooftops droop like power lines and tiltingstovepipes cough fibrils of smoke from failing firesthat haven’t given heat since Mondale lost. I knowthe faded NASCAR signs, the velvet robes of carcasses on deer hoists in bow season, and window shades handmade from sheets.This place of Cheez Whiz and knockoff pop.This place where cars on blocksarchitect strange piles in…
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