Arms out, our crowd of hands a cage,we take them, hairy and clean.Their fur-rags shake.We look down on their backs and heads.Their faces point up. They can’t seewhat they look like.Made of heat and sun-stripe, yip and squawk,matted in patterns and wrong-way curls—we’ve been told they have no souls.Touch them however you feel.As if they…
From a series documenting several years (1980–2021) ofmulti-day cycling tours. Slaterville Springs, NY – Ithaca – Syracuse – Seaway Trail – Ogdensburg – Saint-Zotique, QC – Montreal. Home on Amtrak. October 1980; 334 miles. Via Gitane. Pushed up from the south on the Seaway Trail—New York State Route 3—along Lake Ontario, crossing newly built bridges…
Ask her if she is cold. Ask her if she needs to hide. Fold her into a rectangle and slip her into your breast pocket. She will record the auditory data regarding the condition of the heart. Motherdreaming. Mother turning into sleep. Mother changing the channel. Mother turning underwater. M mostly becomes sunflower head bending…
ghost: to die ghost: to haunt ghost: to disappear from all messaging ghost: when sunlight bleaches a photograph ghost: another walks out of a room but leaves a perfume ghost: begin with the G guttural, the tongue lifts to hitthe back palate, then the mouth rounds itself around the O’slittle opening, a door ajar, then…
So that you feel the weight of your life, you and the children you do not have you and the children, you and you and the children and you So that your days may be lengthenedand tightened by children so that the days of your life may be darkened so that you may be…
Cool and spooky spillage of cloud at the horizonbig vase of light and smokebig white bed sheet that got loose slapping the landscape flat.For dinner there is fried pork, chilibeans, spoon bread with butteror cream, potatoes fried with onions, smoking hot. I put the fire outwith buttermilk, iced tea, or quininewater; in the morning we…
Translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton Macpherson His late style is called baffling,a slap in the face for a publicardent as a pair of worn-out shoes. But the music is tired of reconciliationand seeks refuge in his rage.Let it grind, let it chafe.As when existence contracts in painround his shrinking liver. Perhaps they’ll do…
Translated from the Russian by Olga Livshin and Andrew Janco Seventeen years I’ve worked nights, circling aroundand guarding rivers, walking over riverbanksin uninhabited spaces heated by my breathbehind the stadium, on lumpy soccer soil,seventeen years in boundless air. It all beganwith resin boiling in some distant, vacant lots,among the shadows in military peacoats,with little rail…
It’s a spectacle how blood replicates us.When my sister opens her mouth to laugh, she is my father or could be mistaken as so.Away from her familial tongue, the bloodline stretches to her own daughter, familiar bone frames, façade,my mother’s eyes are also in my daughter’s face, my father’s hair growing in my sons’ scalps,…
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