Poetry

Thirty-six years till my mother is born The perfumes she wore when she was young    whatever happened The bottom of her jewelry drawer calls and calls as I run her through her first school play She doesn’t understand Stroke my stomach    mother    till I understand Why is the movie too advanced? Why do we have…

Sometimes at dusk when the earth gives its sweet breath to the trees, I think how I have taken a stranger’s life and whispered not so much as his name to the asphalt sky. How each year, on my mother’s birthday, I hear the warbled rasp of his breathing and it pushes and draws me…

The buzz of electricity circles a yellow bulb in Maine’s humid heat. June bugs bomb the porch light with spiny legs—date-colored and oversize.                               Spring peepers pin the night, pitch a universe in my mother’s kitchen, except I have not yet…

They’d traveled one by one on their knees beneath the earth to be gathered at the station to be given robes and haloes and official papers. And a bus ticket each to the roadside motel in Ohio that held the reservations in their names, where those who’d been slain before them were waiting. Can these…

When I hear the young refer to someone as a douche bag, I want to say, You may have never seen a douche bag. They were red rubber bags, like hot water bottles, you’d fill it and hang it high enough so that gravity…I can’t go on, I see my mother’s douche bag, my poor…

And every morning the sun comes up. And the pretty coffee in a cup. And a bird meowing outside in a tree. And, on the ceiling, the water stain of England made sadder by singing in a minor key. The size of a coffin, and full of bees. Shadow on a tractor, mowing the field….

When I meet you, it’s not just the two of us meeting. Your mother is there, and your father is there, and my mother and father, and what they might have thought of each other. And our people—back from our folks, back—are there, and what they might have had to do with each other; if…

So here are the strange feelings that flicker in you or anchor like weights in your eyes. Turn back and you might undo them, the way trees seem to float free of themselves as they root. A swan can hold itself on the gray ice water and not waver, an open note upon which minor…

After Pablo Neruda   This piranha in your poem, this river-missile drawn to flesh I once dangled from a fishing line. I know you won’t believe me, but when I held its flapping body to my ear, it moaned. The piranha moaned, like the medicine man moans of a river he believes is an anaconda,…