Poetry

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…

Valium, Librium, and Tylenol with codeine—that’s what Velma           the head nurse at the Florida House of Representatives would dish out when you came in with your period, a hangover,           a cold, a broken arm, a hangnail. She called it the Triple, as in It sounds like you need a Triple or That calls for a…

Your grandfather and I walk alike, each of us counting the brittle spaces in getting older. At the desk I explain I want to see my son, and I see you are now digits on a sheet. Black men in black—the brothers—make sure you obey the rules. It is like the times I had to…

When I saw her in her urban kitchen— thin and smart in her charity-shop green dress— a glass wall was between us polished spotless with some soft cloth of mistrust. All winter she’d lived up the hill in the gray house with the damp walls, the rains fading the fields. The snow— its ice-floe memories…

Then the Great Dane became an arrow of smoke in a wind pipe of smoke, so I had to burn the body. He’d always considered himself king of infinite dominions: king of the bone, king of the living room, king of the elevator, king of the field. The ashes I scattered in a park close…

Why are people wearing antlers in the hospital cafeteria? —Because it’s Christmas, silly. Can’t you hear the sleigh bells drifting down like pesticide from all the hidden speakers? Mr. Johansson says he doesn’t get paid                          enough to wear a Santa hat, but everybody else just goes along with it. It’s winter, the elevators ding, the…

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…