Our daughter never puts her mind on displayLike a jewel too precious to own, or an animalToo wild to cage. At church she’s able to sit still,But then for weeks rattles off the names of poisonousSnakes and admonishes us that knowledge liesOnly outside of Creation. She stops playing in the yardBecause the tomatoes have turned…
So quiet you can hearthe Archer drawing his bow,the Moon powdering her face,the elegant axle of creation turning.A tiny iridescent frog appearedon the lip of the toilet bowl this morningas if waiting to receive us.He seemed to be the king of somethingyet made no protestas we ushered him outsidein a loose wad of tissueand set…
A chain of crushed nouns has upended my mind.It’s o.k. It’s all right, pretended my mind. A quick cut. A small nick. A surgical touch.O Penthidine, Tramadol, so splendid my mind! Ram drew back the string of King Janak’s great bow,Sita shot through the lifetimes and tended my mind. Monkeys and blossoms, a long metal…
Little brother drinks his neon sadness liquid—no onehas a healthy relationship with Mountain Dew. Large, no ice. That means more pop for his buck. Who knows if he enjoys the stuff anymore. I think it’s less aboutsavoring those extra sips and more about putting offthe empty cup, that undrinkable last bit that rolls around the…
If 1 is the name of your best friend from sixth grade,which, for no reason, you remember right now,standing in your socks on the cold tile of the examination room and 2 is finding your car in the parking lot laterand noticing how dirty it has become—the back seat litteredwith plastic wrappers and sales receipts—and…
One thing’s for sure; in the future, the morgues are going to be full of tattoos.It’s going to be more colorful, and easier to manage:“Hey Jeff, move Dolphin-Shoulder-Girl to Tray Seven.”“And get Mr. Flames-On-My-Neck out for the doc.” In Italy the tabloids are talking about the “Ambulenza di Morte,”The Ambulance of Death;a medic who was…
You are your father’s broad back re-writ in small script. Your feet, like his,grasp the soil, confident the planet will never spin too fast to throw you off. I never was so sure. I spent most of my childhood watching the clouds move while I stayed still. In this way I was always an observer….
si vis pacem, para bellum—If you want peace, prepare for war. Today I slammed the door so hardthe house fell behind me. If any ring remains, of rubble& consequence, my salt heart agape, an oh to constructthe shape of the whole just before— This was my war:I did not shrink to fit remarks landing around…
Before she died, my motherpracticed turning herself into stone.Now she sits—a rock on my father’s grave,six feet above his reach. Each springhe punches a hole in his roof,sending up a riot of yellow flowersto tempt her into softening. The tendrilsof his need claw the air, grope to touch her,but she will have none of it….
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