Poetry

And if the family is in a car drivingAnd if the car is a 1965 Ford FalconWith a Hi-Po 289, velocity stacksSticking out of the hood, solidFront axle for drag racing, and ifThe car is running on retreadsAnd if the car is on an inclineOn the way back from Bud LakeAnd the sun is angled…

Raised by grief, raised by hunger,          the bowls of cornflakes she ate alone at night. Raised by the 4:00 a.m. ring calling her to open up, roughnecks          waiting at the café door. Raised away from language, English she was not allowed to speak.          Raised into anger—men she was not allowed to see and the one she sneaked off…

I would have hefted heaven and earth aloft          to keep your hearts thumping in your thorny chests,your world-weary lungs filling like accordions,          your eyes shining with visions pierced by glee. But you performed your leave-taking dutifully—          such are nature’s commandments, its ordained cycles—so, though your vanishing slowed my life with sorrow,          I no longer saw you in the wavering…

How would I know, don’t you seeI haven’t washed my hands? Howcould I even talk about anything?I don’t remember anything fromSyria or my childhood or anything.Why would you ask such a stupidquestion? Your father should havebeen a monk. They come to thiscountry with money. Money, moneymoney. Why do you think it has takenso long? Oh,…

What birdwas thatthat justflew throughmy mind?

Open carry, open for business,open and shut case. Openlike a store. Open like a vault.Any opening in my defenses is yourfault so I close it all up as tight asI can. Then I fold closed bothmy hands again. This gesturemakes a fist. It makes me listlessand makes me brisk and makesme wish for the bicycle…

Transcendence The first thing is silence: the muffling power of snow, that Fairbankssnow hanging on every limb and twig. No noise from nearby roads, nosounds of planes taking off at the airport. Just my skis gliding along,my poles crunching the snow. My breath, and if I stopped to listen, thesound of my heart beating.      is…

On the special ed school tour, he askswhat is that tiny room with the tiny window,and the assistant admissions directortells us it is the seclusion room.We look at the closet-sizefeatureless space with the metal-reinforced door and large thicksteel bar on the outside, and our facesare not as shatter-proofas the glass in that window.With all the…

How to describe the colorof a pond gone fuguein autumn windsurface tinctured blue,sky-stained and deeper watertea-stained from steeping in peatthat netted entanglementthat took a thousand yearsto form. How far the landcan go in tellinga story, waterdark as obsidian nighttoward which I progressevery day feelingendless longing to hold on.