road sign at the edge of town A blue part that is remembered, not a member of the class of prosthetic memories but still a leg up, a boost giving a glimpse over the wall of exile, to a blue that is remarkable and lovely for a garbage can: an aisle of blue garbage cans…
translated by Jonathan Galassi Infernos howl in the murdered trees. Summer sleeps in the virgin honey, the lizard in its monster infancy. For my human smell, thanks to the angels’ air, to water, my celestial heart in the cell’s fertile dark.
R: A special present for my birthday? How sweet of you. But what are you thinking of? T: Rather than some trinket, beaded out of flashy stones, a living gift. R: A living gift! One that grows on me? T: Exactly. A present, out of all our past, to keep you constant company. R: Good!…
Beautiful from the get-go, we were Incarnations of the new, and pure sex. I’ll miss that, along with the unicorns. The organic bower of our garden grew Into anybody’s memory of a bed Or a mattress, in a shack near a lake. “Mistakes, like love, are to be made,” You said. I hadn’t thought of…
Their eggs are laid on lupine. Tiny jade hairstreaks I could easily mistake for dew. Too precious. Too incidental, and besides that, blue, these trills that flounce in my potato patch, drawn from dryland origins to the domestic stain of water from my hose. What an old woman would study, I think as you hand…
Staunton, Virginia But what you should concentrate on is my homesickness. All these roadmaps, tickets, thing-in-a-glass-case— What could make you homesick, for what drive until you glimpsed an end? Look: here they have a little Pilgrim village, a little farming lot, a small extravaganza of skirmishes. EVERY HOUR, WEATHER WILLING, the Indians appear, run around,…
Desire zeroing in on that Furby eBay auction while smut chat gets caught up in the Hegelian carpet role—the secrets of your life scrawled on Post-it notes that fell off of your dash—a pack of Lucky Strikes stairmastered into Liberty’s verdigrised torch— Ellis Island heavier than an oil freighter grounded in…
Meredith Drum is an atomic bomb, a puppet, is confetti and napalm. Maybe she’s a peony grown annually for the flower show. This year’s first-prize installation, a Hiroshima Imperial Hotel room shattered, bouquets wetting the beds. Through the woods, in darkness obscuring our feet, she leads a few thieves. Foxfire on the trees. She rubs…
at my head and my heart, knife-tips green in a gasoline-doused garden. From the tire store behind the house, leering mechanics glaze my window with saliva. I sit at the end of the couch and point my finger angrily, wag it in the face of forever. I sit back on my haunches and sniff the…
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