Poetry

She held my dog’s paw like a gentle jewel.Wind blew her hair into a moonlit arc of ocean.I sat on the tub while she shaved her legs.We shrugged in the downpour. Playground wings and swings, unchained laughter.The pop of her lips released the bottle and her grin.Naked on the porch.Abandoning the stalled car forever. Pancakes,…

Soldiers gnawedthe ends of twigs to make brushes. What they sketchedwould be used to identify themwhen they were returnedto their families for ancestor worship. Gun oilas paint. The war-dead accruedon their papers. Roofs broken in with jacketed lead and herbicides, an expanseof fire. It was the endof an afternoon in 1970. The sun wrappedthe big…

What will you write about your final day?On that last page the words require truth’s grain. What use is one more journey’s destination?The sweet surprises of another day? What, when the great fire roars through your home?What, when the earth’s fault slips with its sundering? What passion can you kindle to survive them?No, no, none…

It’s alright to overdress for the riot. Your rage is stunning.It’s alright to pursue the wrong pleasures and the right suffering.Here’s my permission. Take it. It’s alright to replace a siren with a bell. Let the emergency make some music. It’s alrightthat the meter reader broke your sunflower in half. You knewbetter than to plant…

for the ladies at Florence House The fact of April first means nothingother than the rent check is due & spring or not we are all tenants of snow today& I have no children under my apron nor angelsgracing my back & the women chew slowlywhile it thickens beyond the window pane & the fact…

You’d better believe that if I hadn’t already tied the knot                on these sweatpants I’d be out there in the mad brick city                                painting my lips the only red my complexion will allow,                maybe with some heels on, I could probably find some heelsor at least borrow some, well first make some friends                in this city that shuts itself…

i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018) God of all comfort, closeyour hand over the tract                                                 houses of Livingston—lay shadow on the subdividedland of Christmas lights                                                 and cul-de-sacsand minivans—withdrawthe mortar from the bricks                                                 that bind the staggeredtownhomes and crackedchimneys over white-trimmed                                                 condominiums—swallow the mailboxesdown into the loam beneath                                                 each quarter-acrelawn—pull back the plotsof mulch and patchwork                                                 sod until they spilllike sewage through the streetsand…

The sickening canal retains a gruesome beauty. Today, the weather has waxed psychotic—chilly rainy in the morning, humid and dense as it grew hot, sunny for a second, and now the bluish gray of photographs of Eastern Europe flows from the train bridge into the sky. On the surface of the water, a cascade of…

We feel we have felt felt. We have felt what felt we have. Have felt. Feel. We feel what felt we felt is not what felt felt is. What we have, we feel. What felt we have! Feel! Feel not what is, feel what felt is not. Not we, not felt. Is is is? We…