Poetry

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…

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…

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…