Poetry

In Donegal we climbed over a cow gate, crossed through a field among hooded crows and earth smells, climbed a stile and stepped onto rain-mucked ground, to enter a small grotto where a stone St. Columba was surrounded by a yellow cigarette lighter, a key ring with green gremlin, a rain-swollen missal, a toy train,…

The better the book, the more of us it reads. Even as I look away, words float? across a world I never knew was there. Page after page, I feel the light wind? breathe a little sense into things.? Why would it be any different with you. I knew a man once who had one…

It makes me think of my other life, this minor chord from the room above, when it’s been within hearing—no, closer: moments when, if I stepped a certain way, or put out my hand… Mist this morning over the ball field. Maybe I am turning into a cloud. Last night I left my coat over…

“I hate Ladytown—so much can go wrong down there.” —Steph Things weren’t looking good in Ladytown. True, it was always lush, like D.C. in August, high humidity, but that year the very brickwork sweated salt. That year the Metro chafed the tunnel walls and the train whistles’ wail rose to a new pitch of dismay,…

Note the surface that surrounds the word, and how unlike its meaning, which you step over to avoid, the word raised and touchable. Pitted prune, eaten bone, hay in a muddy yard. Let exist and me see them all: paint in a locker room; rubber garden hose washer; disease displayed on a rosebush leaf; a…

A run-down hall of echoes. Shout your name,? You will hear it again, from generations? Gone before you . . . The souls they have become By the million, look at them, transmigrating Out of Europe, dragging sailors’ trunks? Aboard the Pullmans—conscious of rank, Edwardian . . . There they go, to break the bank…

The woman in the next cubicle: fat ass, the man on the train: fat ass, the director of the nonprofit where I work (though always dieting): fat ass and a bitch. Me on my fourth cookie: fat ass. My mom in her chair: fat ass. My dad in his chair (reclining): fat ass, and my…

In Heaven ants are the doormen to the flies I climbed out of one butchered ballroom into another climbing out of my half-life into my new life on earth My brother right behind me Home The ants are a straight line of suicides showing us the way out of here The flies are suicides with…

1. After dark, stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being—a Starman Or cosmic ace hovering, swaying, aching to make us see. And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure That someone was there squinting through…