Poetry

My brother is lost. I can’t find my brother. I say it over again—when I lost my brother. A back road I knew once and now can’t find. A specific wave on John’s Pond. The last one we sawthere, the blue-lipped sleep of overdose. He goes from one office to the next, and no one…

That afternoon, Bovary wentto the apothecary’s closet, fumbling for arsenicto draw out her black bile, make her mouth a hole.She waited hours for the worst of it, the shearing of her dark lovely hair—though for many years my mother’s hair was not lovelybut thin as sagebrush an autumn fire had passed over.There are mothers who…

I like the idea of a spratchet,which today I learnedis the plastic dividerused in checkout linesthat says this is almost mineand this is almost yours.I like how it helps two strangersnot skinny dip in the reservoirsof each other’s bank accounts.And there’s nothing rude about a spratchet—it’s as polite as plastic can possibly be.Unlike the bolt…

In the tradition of aunts and nieceswe were traveling on the continent,and, as in the tradition, she had no child;we slept in one room, in one bed. What of men? I would sit in the hotel windowin Paris, looking at the people on the street below—they held no interest. I had graduated high school.I was…

By then, simple questionshad grown blades: you’re not even going to shave came to mean,I don’t like the way you look, or that’s how I came to hear it.On certain days she’d say, do you love me today? and I would say, even more than yesterday,and she’d say, that’s impossible! and I’d say, it’s true,…

I liked the joyful sound of the piano coming from the open door where a few departing partygoers giggled, arms linked. I went in. But despite the pianist’s spirit and those lively partygoers, this party was on its last legs. A brown-haired woman with a brass hoop around her neck and an empty martini glass…

after Peter Harris A Japanese shrine is lit by ten thousand candles.One by one, jungle crows carry the candles away to the fields. The flight does not extinguishthe flame—the wick remains hot. Then, the crows bury their new light under dry leaves, saving the tallowin the wax for another day. They’ll eat later. In the…

is a bone you dig out of your bodywith another bone because how else can I describethe kind of time it takesforgiveness to thicken inside a body which is divided into varioushalf-heartedly warring nations a dry forest waitingfor the sky to blush a parking garageringed with shopping carts this carpet of fire ants floatingover the…

“They know locks are important,” the nurse says when she sees me watching a man, younger than my father, twist the switch of a deadbolt nailed to the wall in the dayroom—one of many locks nailed to the wall. Puzzles that can never be solved. Total fake-outs. A tumbler lock, a sliding door latch, an…