How to describe the color of a pond gone fugue in autumn wind surface tinctured blue, sky-stained and deeper water tea-stained from steeping in peat that netted entanglement that took a thousand years to form. How far the land can go in telling a story, water dark as obsidian night toward which I progress every…
Translated from the Braj Bhasha by Chloe Martinez Listen, his gorgeous face is all I can see. I’m living and breathing him; he stays rent-free in my mind— what I’m saying is, I keep seeing my beloved. Wherever his feet have touched the ground, I start dancing. I’m telling you: his face. Mine. Transfixed. Mira’s…
Dear Dactinomycin, I have a question: How do you save a body from the body itself? Your job: stop cells dividing, freeze growth. The proof: hair coming out in clumps, disappeared eyelashes, platelets drained so low they called for a transfusion. A mother’s job: grow a small body, then grow it up. Even volunteer to…
— after C. D. Wright’s Casting Deep Shade “Beech is Anglo-Saxon boc: book, document, or charter,” she (C. D.) writes. “The shoots grow faster in the dark,” she writes in her 250-some page diary of obsession. Here, now, at the smallpox cemetery near where I live, the shin-high marble grave markers, corners softened, stand canted, like awkward lumber….
In an old story, the Almighty shaped clay with His hands to fashion the first man. In this story, enslaved hands shaped clay to make bricks to build storied big houses that will stand in this land. Both stories lead on to sagas of births—natal tales filled with first wails and nations of folk and…
from the Arabic al-jabr, “the reunion of broken parts” I must have been five or six years old when a dragonfly landed on my forearm, at the end of our long driveway, near the mailbox, on a two-lane rural highway. The dragonfly’s body reached from my elbow to my wrist, blue and black, with four…
I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to Italy, but I have the terrible tundra at least —Frank O’Hara (Lunch Poems) I have been to Italy and the tundra too, but it’s not terrible. Frank, you don’t know the smell in the dry fall of picking berries and I might be unable to find an Olivetti, but…
On the eve of the Nuremberg Trials, the doctors found the nails of Hermann Göring’s fingers and toes stained a furious red, the consequences of his addiction to dihydrocodeine, an analgesic of which he took more than a hundred pills a day. When Göring was captured, he had a suitcase with over twenty thousand doses,…
All these ideas, worries, feelings. They seem large. Immoveable, untouchable as the past is. Yet how light they are also, how portable. Even the future— my days still to be spent, my death yet to be greeted. Walking around inside me, wherever I go.
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