Lake-deep black of night and no song we singwill do. After pillow forts, Minotaur lullabies, glow-in-the-dark starfighters, shadow animals’ chomp and gallop, wing- flap and pearl—between flood tide and lightning bloom, our son keeps awake and smiles, rhymes storm with remember, bird with brother with Earth.I kiss the rise of your hip bone, the fringe of your…
Because Ariel speaks of a king’s son,his boats aflame, crying Hell is empty,and all the devils are here, I ask myson to tell me about love. He chalks crownsand rockets across newsprint, draws wolves, rainclouds, an owlet, says You love me—and mymama. I love triceratops. We try these mornings to bring ourselves to trust inthe sound…
Mama called me one thing,named me another.Gave me a mouthon my stomach and fedme. Tied my ankles.Lit a fire round me andcalled it purification.Placed her own veilover my head. Kissedmy belly mouth. Saidit was good. It was hardto eat and speak. I didn’twant to starve. My toesdanced and burned. Ichristened this roastingsomething else. Was cast…
I am sometimes in pain and occasionally sitto write my name in dark inks and the brushgoes wobbly, as if excited into shapeswithout me. The crop fields of someone’s childhoodstill bother the edges of my vision, tawnygridded country, low born, wind gripping the assembledheads of wheat, bristling. One job seems nowjust like another. I was…
The opening to another country was always insidemy father’s mind, in many forms, in dreams: green swords swirling in a winter mist, colorful moths, sometimesa molar falling out, porcelain clattering onto the table like a single rung chime. When I come into the house, I am heldby him, become a child again. The view from…
now my mother wants to walk out to the rock,the two of us on the wide empty trail, blastedred dust in every direction, fat black flies diving into our faces.this is before she got sick, though i supposethe disease is still there,heat-shimmer under her feet, stones closed over scorpions, over vipers,cracks in the earth deep…
The aunt witha wand directsthe boys Pushthat sofa catty-cornered.They do and thinkit’s a fresh start. Itheld that spot oncebefore they wereborn. But ourwomen get an itch.When the boysnot around we movethe furnitureagain ourselvesleaning our shouldersinto chifforobes, making finescratches on the floor.When that don’t workwe trim our hair or sitfor hours getting braids.Come home, take themout,…
Because loss is the back of the photographwe never look at, I write your deathbedscenario on the palm of my handwhile your husband prays and your motherbrings dessert to the funeral. So sensitive,I hear you say at the edge of heaven, the endof history, so strange how we’re herefor only an eyeflash. You stumblewith your…
Like the deer who kept returningto our office because for monthsthe receptionist left salt licksin the underbrush. How would it knowthe receptionist died sleddingwith her children in a late spring snow? Sometimes painbecomes the deer—it keeps showing upthough I have nothing to give it,so I watch it from my office windowuntil it turns, tilts its head at…
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