for Raul Acero Secure the base So the flesh will have something To cling to; wrap wire Around the wood and Fill with clay, liberally; No, continue to add Clay—more than it seems You will ever need for his Indented cheeks—and slap More onto the base of the skull; Don’t forget the constellation Of bones…
“Packs well,” she says, forming in ungloved hands snowballs, lopsided, roughly made, and calls her big-boned shepherd and my scruffy mutt to catch each high underhanded toss. They make us laugh as they leap to mouth midair those cold nothings. A chew, swallow, or spit and, ready for the next gift, they sit to watch…
My brother went to Indiana and came back dead. From the ice-blasted plains he wrote me one letter. “Class is hard. My roommate smells like a horse. I have a job as a security guard. A car would be good. Send curry.” My mother sent the chicken dripping onto plastic in a box; the car…
translated by Marilyn Hacker He wants to have The operation but He’s crazy The doctors are Crazy and then Raising her voice to The heavens she told him Never! He just needs simple Cucumber compresses A lot of love Anyway if he dies She’ll kill herself.
I imagine he’s sitting nearby like a Sufi on a roof, hollow-eyed, intense, burning at midnight. Something snaps. He has learned the art of breaking, & being broken. His call is naked as a needle, sharp as images he sorts from afterimages, arranging them like flames. In the pines he…
Is there a print left by the toes upon the umbered surface of the stone on which the farmer’s daughter stepped in the springtime to reach the top of the fence between the cornfield and the water meadow— I would like to have inquired whether somewhere there does not remain the trace of her delicate…
And this time when she asks, The world will end, won’t it? a black river of crows will be rowing out above you, heavy oilcloth of wings working over slanted roofs, dark tents of sycamore. She will tilt her small head skyward. So that watching her, you could almost glimpse the secret greed of time…
Alice is pushing 40, her sprawling hips so sprawled that when she busts out of the White Rabbit’s House, Lewis Carrol has to play handyman, nailing the door and roof back on. Every time she tries to sneak away through the garden, the path flings her back, like a treadmill going too fast. She crushes…
Something’s kept me away, perhaps an all-too-familiar voice laced with paranoia streaming through a phone unhooked from its cradle, dangling in that empty room. Hanging up not an option. Her ashes in an urn for the third straight year and now I wonder how it was I never could get through to her. Yet here…
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