Poetry

I’m attracted to the em dash—that bridge across the void— a balance beam—a baton passed across thoughts—the sexiest break—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 …

Not the rose carpet, nor the steady breath of the ceiling fan, but the patch of sunlight squeezing through. You’ve been here before. You’re early. Unlike last time—stuck in traffic. The other passengers in the Keke Napep did what people stuck in traffic do: smile at strangers, tell the driver to change the radio station,…

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 slave working in…

When she comes to take youaway she asks if your ringcomes off. You twist and twist. Yousurrender. Celeste saysit will come off later. In those next hoursso many doors open,none of them returning you to me. A manin the atrium belowplays piano— an ambling, jazzy, winespritzer. Noiseto fill the void. I’ve already forgotten her face,…

A mast year for acorns, so like marbles and so manywe’re afraid of falling. I walk sideways down the hill, holding a long stick; Kate goes before mewearing her orange knit cap. Everything alive is changing. Everythingun-alive is changing. What did we think to stop? The broken trees lean on the unbroken trees,which will one…

So, I’ve grown less apparent apparently:the young men walk their dogs, and when our dogs meetwe look at the dogs without raising our eyes to each other. The fathers stand outside the elementary school laughingwith the mothers—Exactly, one of them says to the other—my passing presence faded like a well-washed once-blue cotton shirt. Finally, I…

My mother was once held at knifepointfor a day. The man positionedthe blade at the blue places of her pulse,as if tracing the ground for water,divining as it’s known. Or maybeI’m thinking of the pointed devicethat searches for sapphire,bright veins beneath the earth.Throughout my childhood, I imaginedhis hand. And my mother’s bodybecame the site of…

PUNISH THE SHOOTER, NOT THE GUN is a hard lineto take seriously, as seen on the bumperof an old Dodge hearse spray-painted black and gold,passing on the right. If I honk, will he think friend or foe? A question best left rhetorical,so I keep my hands at ten and two and let him pass.Someone’s sanded…

Suddenly everyone’s friendly, 2020. We’re working in the front yard,Boyd and I, and our neighbor who’s never spoken to us calls out,“Good job!” And now we’re talking. She’s seventy-seven. “Early spring,”she says, and then, “My grandkids can’t come up to visit, because.”We nod. We’re nodders. We wave. We’re wavers. For years,our dog never stops barking…