Poetry

The Tartars say: After the wedding, we don’t need the music. And in Yiddish it is said: It’s the last one whom the dogs attack. The Italians say: The last to arrive must shut the door. The English say: The last suitor wins the maid. They also say: No one has ever seen tomorrow. Spaniards…

After I finally got over my sense of being a character in a book, and the innocence had gradually drained out of me                                   through the holes life punctured in my container, that’s when I finally had time to stoop down and look closely at the dry, exhausted-looking grass             next to the sidewalk, blowing back and…

In the end there is always a little change in the pockets, a few suns and moons you couldn’t spend.   Nearby the cloud of a would-be breath doesn’t move, reprieved but useless.   This candle will change all that.   Use the last bit of air for light, and heat the hand that shields…

When I change lanes on I-70 North toward the St. Louis airport, my father points to my sideview mirrors and asks how I like them angled. He tells me he keeps his tilted to show only a trace of his car, a shadow, enough to see where it ends and the asphalt picks up. And…

That’s how much time they give you to bribe the hall of records for the paperwork you bribe the foreman to sign, swearing you know nothing and owe nothing—no loans, no debts before you bribe a woman to sell your pots and pans, plates, plants, rugs, and record player, so you can bribe a dentist…

for TP The woman down the hall has a girlfriend. When they fell in love the sea was a finger. It pushed them both in the belly. It rubbed their lips. It ran itself up and down their thighs. Then they got married. The sea came to the wedding and ate the shrimp cocktail. Had…

Before she told me, she let me finish my dinner. I can still see the pinkish cream sauce blossoming on the china. I didn’t know yet if I could walk when I pushed myself back from the table. This is what gets me: I didn’t throw the stained dish against the wall. I slipped the…

A poem about “Still Life with Fruit, Wine, Glasses, and a Bowl of Cherries,” by Hendrik van Streek, can’t stay in the painting for long unless it takes a closer look at the blue bowl holding the cherries and wonders, as the wall label wonders, whether that’s Chinese porcelain shipped to Europe by the Dutch…

He takes the bones of a pony,                a pot of Earl Grey tea, a paintbrush      and what remains of the body where his students learned, for years,                to name the parts, saying ulna, radius,      tibia, skull. Saying femur, sternum,                pelvis, clavicle. Is this not how god made Eve                and Adam, more or less? The one…