Poetry

When I woke, makeup-smeared and sallow, everyone was gone. Greasepaint smooth in the new line of my cheek and corset-bruises on my hips, first warm day of the year. A false eyelash settled like a moth on my collarbone. They loved me on the high wire last night in my spangled tights all done up…

That glass of wine suspended in air decades ago—3D projection still a tactile memory, the ruby liquid shimmering as if just poured into its goblet, the hands reaching out, all of us incredulous then believing before this chalice raised to science and art. And now in Japan, rising pop diva cat girl Hatsune Miku—high-def, green-haired…

On the morning she became a young widow, my grandmother, startled by a sudden shadow, looked up from her work to see a hawk turn her prized rooster into a cloud of feathers. That same moment, halfway around the world in a Minnesota mine, her husband died, buried under a ton of rockfall. She told…

I’ve watched this ultrasound so often I close my eyes and picture a daughter feathered with pixels, a putto’s skeleton. So here is a piece of art I own, a representation any impressionist would be proud of for it moves, though it doesn’t yet move me. But I do return, so she has achieved what…

The sun was nothing more than an orange the day Lisa ran for the ice cream truck. It was small and even if it held sweetness, even if it seeped Vitamin C, it couldn’t stop the car from barreling down Mott Avenue, couldn’t shine enough to show the driver the eight-year-old girl dashing in front…

I go around and turn the pages—the newest news—for the paralytics on the porch. At least the day isn’t hot yet. So says only a gleam in an old man’s eye. A bee zeroes in for the kill. I roll the ladies to the shady side. No one wants word of war. They go for…

When I decide to go to hear Handel’s Messiah in London           at the composer’s parish church, my husband says he’d rather see a Thai horror movie, so we plan to meet later           at our favorite Moroccan lair that serves huge platters of olives and fried goat brains, but here I am sitting in the pew…

do you remember that bum you ran into in the bathroom of the Radisson washing himself with a rag his clothes in a pile in the corner he must have been in his sixties all smiles and still retarded by his father’s rage oh this man he said the things he did to me and…