Poetry

I shall speak of the tendency among sane and healthy persons to seeimages flash unaccountably into existence.                                                                                     —Francis Galton This is a tale not of science but of blue. Some say this heat is the worst in history, but history is huge and Idoubt it has never been hotter across the Northern peninsula. Still, the bears…

I’m resting on a bench in the cemeterywhile Ned scrawls his self-delighted wild-boy traceover the slopes of grass, but we can’t stay long, since it’s a day I need to go into the city,and when I stand up suddenly my left leg’s half a footlower than my right, because I’ve stepped into the sunken, newly…

When I hit thirteen, the noun between my legsturning into a verb, my father sat me down and said: one day you will have a wife of your own. A manwill come—a helpful neighbor knocking while you’re at work perhaps, or a garlicky colleagueat an office party, or a lifeguard on a spit of sand—…

Marked by Apollo with a red coin on the forehead, this one still waits, solitary, uncoupled on extraordinary legs, not gull-like or chicken-like, not tree-clinging or perching. He dreams a wet return to the sand flats and shallowsof the Blackjack Peninsula, of flying over lands with mutual wing easing their flight as in Paradise Lost….

Praise scissors that clip split ends easily as ex-     boyfriends. The one who died in college, the refugee who crossed a blood-soaked Nile, but never could     get over you. Praise coffee and Kentucky bourbon. Daughters pulled deep into Ohioan corn,     romances banished to backseats and barstools, and newlyweds two-stepping to the second line     waving paper…

I flick a switch—out flashes the light bulb,like God snapping his fingers in my face:Wake up, Pumpkinhead. I’ve been running aroundhalf-naked, with the rest of America,wearing only a credit card and a cashmere scarf.Arf, arf. Yesterday, I went to Circuit City’sgoing-out-of-business sale to revel in the fall of capitalism,but all I saw were the sad…

Before they put Cousin Gladys inside the ground in a cornrow of fair-skinned Creole men, I sat in her funeral mass imagining two shadows dancing in the swish of a swift moving blade that slit her dreams in halfand sent her father strollingacross the cane field like a land-bending river, turning a page she could…

All one needs to belong to the company Of the truly grateful is to feel grateful, Just as I felt when, retrieving a sock This afternoon from behind the dryer, I found the book you lent me Four years ago, two years before your heirs Sold off your library. Did you ever wonder What had…

Today I bow to the power of negative space,the beauty of what’s missing—the hard work of yard work made harder without you,while the stiff kiss of acorns puckers the ground. I am a fool. Even as the red impatiens wither and brown,they are still lovely. I feed the gaping mouths of lawn bags with their…