See how the white crosses rise out of the ordinary, this stretch of freeway indifferent except it holds the loss of someone loved. Bent in the ditch empty of rain, the mourners are artists assembling silk flowers, pinwheels turning in the sun, stuffed teddy bears, t-shirts, handwritten letters, into public sculpture. Monuments of faith, of…
I am your favorite sound.Say galangal and the tongueretreats. Say rhizome and the rootstalkshoots out new growth.We pull it from the ground,carry it gently: a hand. A harvestof red-veined petals we rubon our lips. Tonight, when my ear hungers,I will feed it song. The metallic talkof hummingbirds. The unfolding of a letter,a shovel hitting rock,…
is really three differentmechanized sharks plusfootage of one real shark filmed during a trip to Australiafor that specific purpose. The parts of JAWSthat frighten are the parts where you can’t see the shark. They’re scary becauseyou can’t see the shark. They had to work arounda malfunctioning mechanical shark, rewriting scenes so the shark’s presenceis suggested…
We used to say field in English where we now say battle, where we still say battlefield. As in: many a bloody field was fought. As in: at night, I survey the adrenaline-addled field of my brain. As in: when I’m deprived of sleep for days, the air in the black room holds tiny points…
So thick with sphagnum a person more sure-footed than I amcan balance on its undulating surface, even cross from side to side.Didder. British for how a floating bog quivers when someone steps on the rotting leaves, reeds, and mosses built up over time.What will I find in my mire if not the leathery bodiesof dead kings and commoners? Bent…
AVAILABILITY A boy and a deer, a god-boy holding his window, his mirror. Daphne resting in the window and the curve of the boy’s back. The deer’s delicate legs and hooded Orca eyes. Daphne calling her father, she has no father, she has one of many common river gods for a father who does his impotent,…
Body of beeswax, core a tough braid,strung in a pair as the pair was made—snip the wick, choose one, set it in brass,ready the match and the strike. Powerless,bless the lozenge of flame and its glowthrown over table and novel, the fewthings worth paying mind to in hurricane dark.Or, on an uncloudy day, done with…
Purple, crumpled shut-ins, these scalloped flowersneither wrestle, nor do they crumble. Poet,may I call you Mother (since mine has died), orwill you reject me?
I don’t like moving, too,being moving, moving myselfand by myself through space;it means permeating in a new way, measuring the daydifferently, carrying, as if onmy back, heavy as a dressing table,my own image, what I want to do when I get there, dealingwith my things, what movesme and what doesn’t, to action—and so I avoid…
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