Poetry

After it all, a bridesmaid hands you the vodka                    you’ve waited for, so clear and chill it tastes bell-like against your tongue, as though it could hollow you from your heart outward,                    hollow you as February hollows the fields beyond the church, the sliced cornstalks thinly rustling. You’re impatient for crocuses,                    for their scent of fresh petrichor, their…

It’s getting toward my timeto be enrolled among the legionsof the fallen pretty-good poets.A grateful earth has patted their heads. And here’s my head,this failing crop of white hairsmown to stubble;these dry discolored lumpshalf-hidden in it, recalling all those makeshift graves in the bullet-mownCornfield at Antietam.—And then came hundreds of mourning doves,to peck at the…

City-born, we’d never livedin view of a horizon,  or beneath the expansiveblue above sheep, but rent in Iowa was cheap,including more green beans than we could eat,wildflowers grew from water  in empty jars. In fall,the hardwoods burn without  a fire and make no excusefor what’s in store. And everything withinwas ours, no one else behindthe…

After they split, my father used scissors to cut my mother from our childhood photos; blacked out her name in the lower-left corners of large paintings of wild horses, of men huddled together in a desert wedding against a burnt sienna sky, of little scarlet gondolas in Venice, the canal always the same cerulean. I…

Beginning, I said, or becoming. He began dissecting my choice. No -ing words, no developing or growing—who are you now, not who are you beginning to be? I began stammering. I didn’t like not being believed, I knew that, even if I didn’t know anything else about myself. I’d begun the day not knowing him….

First date, bowling alley. Poor choice, no chance to talk, one of us always taking a turn. When he bowled, his hip curved, same stance as when he played trumpet, school band where we met. After two games, still silent, we held hands in our center lane, the eye, movement all around us, bowlers, spinning…

After Camille Dungy’s “characteristics of life”                                    TodayI misheard the word eternity as the trinity. I was looking at those birds, falling from the sky,thousands of them, a photo of their corpses inthe Times, lined up on a white sheet of paper, like words. Warbler.Flycatcher. Swallow. Eternity. Trinity.Die-off. An airplane passes overhead, then another. The cradle…

—for Richard McCann At first it was unacceptable—strangers dressed in black,walking away or toward a holein the ground, each a versionof you. Seven hundred reasonsto dig holes in the earth—somelook for water, some need afence. Some for this seed,some for that body. my God,your body. When you died Ididn’t cry or even think of it…