Poetry

It’s hard to manage privacy while using the machines: they are so public, and fully half of us are here wanting to show ourselves, wanting an audience for this one triumph—sculpted shoulder, sculpted calf. But to be seen deciding, Yes, the last repetition, to be seen flinching the weights up despite an amount of pain…

At the hem of horizon a distant armada of cars is gnawing its way through the chop of a meadow going like Columbus toward the end of the world under banner of no return. I dip my brush into black. Over a lip I build a black mustache, a small dense thundercloud, scented with rum,…

If your gaze takes in the world a person’s a puny thing. If a person is all you see, the rest falls away and she becomes the world. But there’s another world into which a person can disappear. Then what remains? Only your word for her: Eurydice.   * She paused at the stone gates…

She is not an ordinary Baby, but a lump of coal. Grown-ups glance at her And look away. Only the children Stare. Their parents tell them Not to point. When Angeline’s mother Wheels her stroller Into the bakery Everyone falls silent. When she pushes it Outside again, raindrops slide Right off her baby’s face. At…

The dirt-and-grease-and-brown-rose-rot-Community-     Garden-woman- out-of-the-rice-paddy-with-Toltec-baby-on-the-back party begins, good morning, like a tiger, a lullaby on the     dirge-cusp, and is gorgeous, not ever sitting one minute, not a moment     insouciant, and absolutely lagging badly in the calm department, carrying     life around in an iron handcart with peony, and a thousand people a    …

The women in my family were full of still water; they churned out piecework as quietly as glands. Plopped in America with only the wrong words hobbling their tongues, they liked one thing about the sweatshop, the glove factory, and it was this: you didn’t have to say much. All you had to do was…

She is not an ordinary Baby, but a lump of coal. Grown-ups glance at her And look away. Only the children Stare. Their parents tell them Not to point.   When Angeline’s mother Wheels her stroller Into the bakery Everyone falls silent. When she pushes it Outside again, raindrops slide Right off her baby’s face….

Hermes, so young, arrives to tell of spring, a cold wind and a few feathers of snow accompanying him. His     eloquences are tinctured with yellow and red—the first colors— and he warms to his subject, remembering an earlier year: —of the very sun’s first ferment, of coltsfoot on the     roads’ verges, of newness…