Poetry

Drought summer I broke my foot and hobbled on crutches. Stood staring, crutches against the counter, refrigerator door open, blank light spilling. Your mother, all hours, weeping upstairs, her widow’s heart splitting her chest apart. Home after nine, or later, vacant as a ghost, you would swallow me with a hot mouth, grime visible on…

A bird comes to the window. It’s a mistake to think of them as birds, they are so often messengers. That is why, once they plummet to the sill, they sit so perfectly still, to mock patience, lifting their heads to sing poor lady, poor lady, their three-note warning, later flying like a dark cloud…

The fear of perjuring herself turned into a tacit Admission of her guilt. Yet she had the skill And the luck to elude her implacable pursuers. God was everywhere like a faceless guard in a gallery. Death was last seen in the auction room, looking worried. She hadn’t seen him leave. She narrowly avoided him…

The cicadas again like kindling that won’t take. The struck match of some utopia we no longer remember                                                     the terms of— the rules. What was it was going to be abolished, what restored? Behind them the foghorn in the harbor, the hoarse announcements of unhurried arrivals, the spidery virgin-shrieks of gulls, a sideways sound, a…

He woke up in New York City on Valentine’s Day, Speeding. The body in the booth next to his was still warm, Was gone. He had bought her a sweater, a box of chocolate Said her life wasn’t working he looked stricken she said You’re all bent out of shape, accusingly, and when he She…

“The child plays at being not only a shopkeeper or teacher but also a windmill and a train.” —Walter Benjamin, “On the Mimetic Faculty” At dusk the ring of the horizon turned brown, folded open, then dropped lower, like grain. But there was no grain. And it was dawn again. The wind blew odd furrows…

The woman said yes she would go to Australia with him Unless he heard wrong and she said Argentina Where they could learn the tango and pursue the widows Of Nazi war criminals unrepentant to the end. But no, she said Australia. She’d been born in New Zealand. The difference between the two places was…

At first the angel was perfectly wingless, loitering out in the meadow below our summer place, gazing up at the sky. A kind of Christina without a home behind her. Whenever she was hungry, she’d sneak into our home and steal an apple or a peach from the walnut bowl. Once she cracked a tooth…

Pleasure is the widow, circulating. She walks and her dress unfolds like a stream folds in clear seams. The bright willow streams down the bank. Where she walks the stream flashes bright windows, a creed of windows. She weeps through the river and the changing flower of foam. Pleasure is the widow. So some pleasure…