What happens to good girls?They get presents.What happens to bad girls?They get tied up & locked in the closet. A stiletto was first a pen,Then a dagger,Now a heel.Caravaggio’s Medusa was painted on a shield.The painting itself is an object of warfare.I wear purple marks from you on myEyes & hips. Medusa’s head is full…
A day of Prosecco & maps.You inhaled the musk from my hair.You drove my childhood curves;I dressed in the part. I rode shotgun inYour dead father’s Porsche.The car he never lived to drive.The car he never could afford. Tupac took us up to the hill town,Bach Fugues brought us down.They say the first witch ever,Daughter…
“I have nothing at all to sayBut I want to say it anyway…” —Marcello Mastroianni, 8½ In my perfect 6-year-old FrenchI’m singing Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques.Dormez-vous? before the white capsand the waves’ salt spray—it’sthe only song I know to the end,the only world… Sun burningthrough the mist, white as a Eucharist,obscure as everything I hopeto one day…
your way of avoiding meis just as good as mine— one stone fence, one lastlittle field—i won’t bother anyone here if you won’t—but we ruined Saturday, agreeing to just amblein the rain when really the important strangersbeckoned us because they needed bothof us at once— strangers can bring exquisitepressure to a meeting— you turn to…
The lonely, young, blond woman in a big gray coatsits by one, small, open window all morning. The lonely, young, gray-coated womancan stay there all day. The coat cannot be gray before big.The window must be small before it is open. If the woman is lonely, she is usually lonelybefore any other word. The woman…
The neighbor’s pit-bull,who seemed determined to sniff outthe origin of the sky, disappeared months ago. What luxury. I dreamt of him last night.This time, in a field of blue delphiniums,he stepped toward mebefore vanishing as one vanisheswhen you knew them well a long time ago. On mornings like this,I let myself imagine it is himwho…
Just for once, I want to witnessthe going away. I want to catch the moment,cup it in my hands, and see it blink and glow.But in this dream, the Valley Line shrieksfrom Grand Central hours before I arrive. OrI reach Port Canaveral after the Boatswain’sfinal call. I’m alone on the pier,waving goodbye, waving come back,waving…
What we have made is flyover country. Gulch of drip-coffee pleasance, my beige blanket’s deafening softness keeping the edges blurred. No glint. Viewed from above the fields stitch together. Belief in the human quilt.Belief in turning away from the needle’s sharp point, belief that the gauntlet valleyed by rage and time is a safe space worth…
Can I leave now?is all a teenage client monotones again and again in our first session together. I can only helpif you talk to me is what I’m supposed to say to him.Last night I played solitaire and didn’t cheat, stacked my red cards,stacked my black, as my husband read about the president. We went…
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