Then, I will be a person who knows ferns—who has tramped the woods for miles to tell youabout glacial egg-shaped boulders mattedwith which kind of fern, and then, forty miles south,that the same kind of fern, the Walking Fern,is still vibrant (though less bosky) on northernslopes, in lime sand, and I will be a hat-wearing,walking-stick-carrying…
While you get high with your therapist, I’m smoking a spliff in a cemetery, readingabout the Birds of Tennessee, wishing we were playing house in New York.The art is beautifuleverywhere, but all descriptions of art are the same.Theory elides the gap between aesthetics and ethics.The greathorned owl lives in the suburbs. I’m dismayedto learn the barred…
Translated from the Arabic by Abdelrahman ElGendy So-and-so brushedmy shoulder as gunshotscracked. So-and-so: I never learnedhis name, so I called himcousin, and that wasenough. So-and-so, who sharedhis last bite as hungerfissured my song. So-and-so, a blurwho saw you safelythrough the square. So-and-so, who frisked mewith a grin, asked,“Is he reallystepping down?” So-and-so who told…
I am ready to have less of loss—a thought that comes to me now that I’m used to having lossall around, shows up as I walk past the freshly cut field near the spotwhere my mother-in-law broke both her ankles, bleeding heartsstubborn on the terrace. Some want the poem to come for themfrom the sky…
people like to say, though younever liked when I said itabout this painting, your portraitof a sad clown—your favorite kind.Hair mussed, her greasepaintfaint but still there, she stares outinto an empty place beyondthe unframed canvas. What can I sayto make her stir? Even as a kid,I knew immediately—it was you, Mom.“Not a self-portrait,” you insisted,though…
More and more, when I’m walking—and it seemsI’m walking more and more—I turn aroundBecause something has called to me and more And more it’s me as a child back there, walkingwith a friend or a ball or both—and he’s happyand that makes me happy, even when he doesn’t Seem to know it’s me he is…
The hour splits with dust somewhere between north and south.A pine tree sways, disappears.A palm tree sways, appears.I am an exile from the California of my childhood.Grass whistles between my father’s grave and mine. The wind raises dust on my mother’s house, cloaking the yard.I listen for water trapped deep in the aqueduct.Hawks cast shadows…
My father was a brown man.My mother was white. My father was a very brown man.My mother was a very white woman. My father was born in the jungle.My mother was born in an industrial city. My heart, my little lion—It beats faster to say these things Even after all these years, even afterIt is…
The light isn’t right.The glare from the windowspierces my father’s glasses and he squints as I pressthe button on my phone.Again, he tells me. Take it again. And I oblige,trying to find a positionthat would hold him as he is now though he isconstantly movingto avoid the light. I wonder how longwe will continue this…
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