Lugging a corpse with you everywhere you went. Strapped to your back. Slumped in a wheelchair. Dragged on a sled or pulled in a red wagon. The corpse keeping you focused on your mortality. Reminding you that ultimately you’re just a corpse. At first it was a fringe thing. Hipsters only. Then celebrities got…
for C.P. What to do with all this flame but douse it with paper cupfuls of red and yellow pills. What to do with the sun that licks its rose blaze in the tiled corners of this ward, with the hours, with the burden of relief we’re allowed to feel. We still breathe. We…
He said he would hang himself so as not to make a mess. But he was still there the next day. And the next. And the next. He wrote the note for the cops on a page he tore from my favorite book of poems. That’s all I saw of it— in…
I don’t remember wearing it to school or after dark to the Halloween party where apples for bobbing floated in tubs. I don’t remember staring in the mirror to admire myself in the half- mask, white blouse and black skirt, the fabled red hood gaudy with sequins. My father paid…
Three days after my chemo infusion, the hospital Chapel’s framed inspirational words wishing us well in moving forward, I send myself flying with frozen lips and bad ski equipment, arms and legs dragging against the winter’s cold molecules— no longer regretting the frilly white gift saved from the affair in Vaduz that I…
“So she thoroughly taught him that one cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure, and that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every glance, every last bit of the body has its secret, which brings happiness to the person who knows how to wake it. She taught him that after a celebration of love the lovers…
In this poem someone has taken the edge of one hand & swept the crumbs from the counter. In this poem we save what falls & Jesus speaks lightly, a breeze carrying the river’s scent. And all the day & night of this poem a face asks what’s left after science, after the black &…
Write a poem about the sounds the ice makes end of winter, my father says. I could say grinds like slow gears. I could say moans and grieves, cracks like a gun in the night but holds, and I would not be wrong. There’s a remedy for winter called the tilting of the…
We hiked back to those desert rocks just after Christmas. We saw the whale head rising from the sea, and the parrot’s odd unstaring eye. We saw a thousand plump barrel cactuses, and a single antelope squirrel, and a half-dozen lizards running ahead of us on the path. We saw one yellow flower and saw…
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