Poetry

I am thirty-two, thirty-two times have I passed before the day and hour of my death, as one passes by the door of a house that one will someday live in, without even a thought of glancing at it. —Julian Green, Diary: 1928-1957 It could be empty, windowless, or simply occupied by ghosts, a kind…

My old boyfriend’s fortune cookie read, Your love life is of interest only to yourself. Not news to me. A famous writer once showed me the fortune in his wallet— You must curb your lust for revenge— slapped over his dead mother’s face. After finishing our Chinese meal at that god-forsaken mall, eight of us…

Translated from the Slovene by Michael Biggins with the Author Every ball is a bloody, beautiful mask of powerful people. We make up pretzels. I always did like chickens. O, slender fez, mildew perching on its fur. The poet is an oafish celeb on a hood. Of every wondrous power. On a hood. I glance…

At the moment the dog dies some last good leaves your body, Omen. Oh, you, woman without mother, father, lover, this dog with his final sweet breath snout. Harbinger, oh, you: lay thee down in the bracken & brush. In a morning beyond tomorrow morning, by some strength not fully your own, drag yourself to…

For sorrow we have love and the waves dying in.? We can visit our lives in the country of winter trees and blue ruin. ?For the nameless we have silence.? Where tenderness runs out there is tenderness.? A trail descends into the next glen.? Our anti-muse’s hair is the color of loam.? For gospel she…

Translated from the Slovene by Michael Biggins with the Author Radiant white pipe laughing deep down in Jesus’ eyes, the glow is astonished, returns. Wet bandage wrapped around your head, does it hurt? Fra Angelico’s tongue is tin. The ants on it are the hills of Tuscany. What was it that soaked Fra Angelico, nobody…

Translated from Arabic by Fady Joudah The birds’ departure from his heart leaves the plains white where the story is white and sleep is white and silence is the caller’s icon. A laugh of sand will sprout when the door is opened from fear’s angle, a hymn for the grand winter, and the voices of…

We move the same packed box from house to house, off the ancestral farm, now overgrown with glorious, inedible rhododendrons into the rented basement of a mud-lot seeded for next spring. We sweat through shirts to lug it six flights up to a Brooklyn flophouse with a view of the subway station, ship it freight…

Translated from the Slovene by Michael Biggins with the Author I’ve invented a machine that, as soon as a goldfinch opens its throat, starts dumping bags of concrete inside. Who licked the candies into concrete, we don’t know. Who then brought the concrete to life, we don’t know. The goldfinch sails. The goldfinch sings. Where…