Poetry

Where are the flying starsof my childhood? Evenings litlike a glitterball’s sparkle againstthe night’s dim walls. Their absenceis like aging: one less pulse each year. I want my childhood of darknessbedazzled again with shards of light—my tiny lighthouses, my suburbs of surprise—where the shadows of dogwoodsand crepe myrtles wink at me.Tell me I’ll never be…

DEFINE, meaning “the degree of distinctness in outline of an object, image, or sound,”          sound being some motion invisible to the eye, progenitor to an empire of echoes,          although empire implies dominion, a definition demanded from its subjects,          all of whom are subject to their own purpose, “one that may be acted upon,”          which is not, impossibly, all, “fully,…

I’m attracted to the em dash—that bridge across the void—a balance beam—a baton passed across thoughts—the sexiestbreak—the turntable’s tonearm before the groove kicks in—the “Electric Slide” of punctuation—(it’s electric!)—not an en dash or a hyphen—an expanded truth—playing the long game—the schemes between chess moves—all the small mercies—the giant oak on Corning Street toppling over a stone wall, tree branches…

Not the rosecarpet, nor the steady breathof the ceiling fan, but the patchof sunlight squeezing through.You’ve been here before.You’re early. Unlike last time—stuckin traffic. The otherpassengers in the Keke Napepdid what people stuck in traffic do: smileat strangers, tell the driver to change the radio station, crackknuckles, complain, fall asleep, wake & eat the agbalumosprobably…

His smile stretches wide to hide          a familiar, hollowed-out pain,minstrelled, ready to play          on command.How differently he’s portrayed          from others in his day—butternut brown, a burnished glow          lights his torso.Gold vest and grey frock coat,          pre-Civil War, dapper.In this version of the story:          he’s not as a slaveworking in a field but a musician            holding bones/ivory/woodin his loose fists, fingers curled          against his…

Before she brought me forth, I wish she’d knownhow much more she’d need to take away, the momI knew marooned in Alabama. Moves to MS, FL,and TN, and she can’t return without a flat tire,financial fiasco, old lovers making pilgrimagewho could undo the curse but instead scrape offthe lonely single dad veneer, let kindnesses findtheir…

We found the cardinal nearthe bird feeder: stiff, eyes fixed, wearing the brightest red coatof any bird I’ve seen this summer. With a shovel I lift him from the dirt,show him to my daughter who gazes upon the orange bill, the rigored body,leans in close enough to touch.  Was it raptured? Preyed upon?Could we have…

I search online for causes and find that most are tied to loss.A child, a parent, a friend, regret. For me, the I is lost. The most awful things happen hours after a session, not anotherfor a week or two. The Therapy Curse, I call it, covering the years I’ve lost. Sometimes I see angels,…

He’s wearing two watches,one set to the local time in New York,the other in Gaza. In a café with friends,waiting for his tea at the round table,and whenever his eyes fallon the dial of the Gaza watch, he can see the kidsof his Gaza neighborhood running in the alleys,girls playing hopscotch, boysplaying soccer. At night,…