Poetry

With my black pointed hood and my raggedy black gown, its tatters like the Wicked Witch might sport before she hops on her broom to write the sky in black smoke, Surrender Dorothy!—I could be holding out my hands for a trick or treat, like any American child on a Halloween eve, if not for…

It was in that year the dog arrived On the farm, and I appeared in his eyes, A speck because I was made of flesh, Not fur, not tail, not paws thick as leather. I bent down, patted his coat, And I asked, Is it time now? The old stray was reddish brown, His breathing…

We will weave through the labyrinth of headstones to clear the patch of soil where you rest, to plant a tall palm with leaves that know that north sea breeze, to roast a suckling pig. The blood of this pig will mingle with your bones, tickle your limbs, awake the bomba y plena pulse. We…

Like someone trying to nap in a room with a glaring terrarium God rolls over but before resuming his dream where He’s a lover decked out in a sunbeam, He glances at the blue planet he made, at continents crashing and mountains popping up, at sheets of dirt settling in streams and streams settling in…

As one opponent calling out checkmate an hour past midnight could crack a man already broken and bring allegations from his tongue, violence to his veins, bring him to rise and hip-knock the table so the legs screech, so the pieces quiver and topple, the bishop a salt shaker kissed by an elbow, bring him…

Learn to think like a horse her trainer said. She went into the pasture at noon, when her horses lay down to sleep without fear of coyotes, without fear. They sensed her but did not mind as she stretched out beside them with the June heat’s broad strong hand flattening her into the grass. Now,…

Outside the white cottage, a half-dozen chairs set out. A run of rocky fields washed by starlight. Full moon rising off the cliffs cutting a path to the islands. Inside the cottage, the sounds of children quieting themselves. The slow scrape and rattle of chairs dragged across a linoleum floor. Last stir of footsteps fading…

I watched the young couple walk into the tall grass and close the door of summer behind them, their heads floating on the golden tips, on waves that flock and break like starlings changing their minds in the middle of changing their minds, I saw their hips lay down inside those birds, inside the day…

We’re newcomers to an old place. The house was built in 1860 (so we think); since then, the Portuguese fishermen and the faded, artsy bohemians have come and started now to go, replaced by “guppies” driving Lexuses. Our street is lined with lindens, home to chickadees that play in the elaborate display of whirligigs, birdbaths,…