Poetry

The Statues

One morning the people of the capital awoke to dozens of bronze statues: in front of parliament, a horse and rider both the size of Great Danes; behind the concert hall, a waif in a tutu on a tree stump playing a huge violin. In the library lobby, a creature with a low forehead, protruding…

This Morning, After an Execution at San Quentin

   My husband said he felt human again   after days of stomach flu, made himself French toast,                                        then lay down again to be sure.                      I took our daughter to the zoo, where she stood on small flowered legs, transfixed by the drone                                                          of the Howler monkey,                                        a sound more retch…

April

one robin, one yellow willow love braving the rain on the wrong highway— honestly, I don’t know what to think! a Canada goose, a headlong cloud Open the window! under my hand, your wet skin you looking? thirty April mornings one white tulip, one red one precise interior one persistent stem 2 cherry blossom, silver…

Orpheus Plays the Bronx

When I was ten (no, younger than that), my mother tried to kill herself (without the facts there can’t be faith). One death or another every day, Tanqueray bottles halo the bed and she won’t wake up all weekend. In the myth book’s color illustration, the poet turns around inside the mouth of hell to…

From a Glass House

Percussion at bedtime! A fist-sized rock, well-aimed, wrecked two windowpanes and missile-cruised my living room, bestowing transparent sharpness; ricocheted; reposed on a walnut bookshelf thick with history (the Black Jacobins, class war in ancient Greece). Glittering quills adorned a potted palm. The projectile excited scrutiny: its mongrel shape lopsided— round, then sharp; its colors muddy,…

Letter to Alice

I’m up in Squaw Valley—yes the name is utterly inappropriate in these late twentieth-century days, but hey, history isn’t pretty especially place names. Monument Valley has no monuments The Eiffel Tower or Tour Eiffel just stands there squat on the ground, then rises grid and girders. The difference between New York and Paris is landmarks….

The Absence of Light

God works in mysterious ways, Father said, but He’s not half as mysterious as your mother. He said, Let there be light. And there was light. I don’t see anything mysterious about that. He did what He said He’d do. Your mother says, Let’s not be late for the movie. Yet she takes so long…