My roommate was having an argumentwith his girlfriend: It’s the wrong key. No it’s not. Well it isn’t working. Once you and I had disagreements like that,I ended it. But there was a pointwhen I had a codeto your front door. People had the wrong idea about us.No socks on the stairswas one of your…
I divide my time between the NewYork in my mind and a cow-sprouted field, divide my rightear from my left, though the leftreceives god-like frequencies onlymy poodle can hear. I divide myliver from my brain when I swillwine and smoke. Divide my sunnydisposition from the sun it neverowned. Divide my body frommy bed, home from…
There was a poisoning.Perhaps from the reincarnation ages ago where your hands curled and stitchedthe fake flower bouquets of 1860, dusted them with Scheele’s green,the arsenic powder breathed into your child lungs. Or maybe before that,like Napoleon, copper sulfate from a papered bedroom settled like a secretinto your waistcoat and gloves. Centuries have passed since…
1. Shea Stadium In my twenties I used to go to the occasional afternoon game at Shea Stadium. Sometimes the Mets won. Once I ordered a hot dog. The guy next to me, handing my money to the vendor and the hot dog to me in a classic example of the chiasmus, said, “You know,…
One of our two poetry winners is Lo Naylor, for their poem “at the baggage claim in JFK.” This year’s poetry judge was Joshua Bennett. Of Naylor’s poem, he writes: “at the baggage claim in JFK” is a poem that transported me back to a city I’ve loved for as long as I’ve been alive, and…
We pretended not to see him weeping, the fogclotted in his throat. His filthy coat. Someunforeseen disaster always coming for him.He often went missing, fell asleep in the snow.How could we know? We triednot to see him, flinching at the sun, at whateverloomed above him. The fist of the fathercoming down hard on the head…
One of our two poetry winners is Jonathan Wolf, for his poem “The Hog Farm.” This year’s poetry judge was Joshua Bennett. Of Wolf’s poem, he writes: “The Hog Farm” is memorable for many reasons. But it’s primarily the poet’s careful attention to the bond between silence and song that caught my attention. The soundscape here…
At this time of day, goldish-gray rains down and our garden plot turns to mud.I forgot to plant anything this year, but it’s totally fine because I saw a headline, Honey Bees Are Not At Risk of Extinction. For this, I praise last year’s plumeof borage, chamomile, salvia. So this is how things will be…
Whose rooftops droop like power lines and tiltingstovepipes cough fibrils of smoke from failing firesthat haven’t given heat since Mondale lost. I knowthe faded NASCAR signs, the velvet robes of carcasses on deer hoists in bow season, and window shades handmade from sheets.This place of Cheez Whiz and knockoff pop.This place where cars on blocksarchitect strange piles in…
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