Imagine yourself a sequoia, down to the roots, El Niñoshaking the leaves. You want to say invade instead of shake,but that doesn’t feel safe. Roots like those, they stay in the earth: so keep your breathvisual. Paint until it feels right, even if Oregon smokefloats across the Rockies to scent your hair. Your insides twist…
A horse, a horse, my dumb king for a horse. My brand-new horse—the naysaying centrist—for state senate. The suede backseat of my thousand-horsepower hearse for a spare 10,000 hoursto practice basic survival, the fine art of making a slow exit look painless. My last supper for an everlasting grain of saltto dose my days with…
After John Donne You. Gone now—to a better place, you would say, not on the earth. You are on my screen. A photo Paul took in the doctor’s office, an hour before you passed, whichI received in the security line. Writing now, in the air. Do not photograph me, please, You often said—no pictures. What…
Translated by Andrej Pleterski If I were to write she stood there,in a fast-food restaurant,ordering soft ice cream,with the nearby park in cherry blossoms,if I were to write her pink was more distinct,everywhere: the socks, the cape, the lips, the eyelids,an adorned tree with a lively past,if I were to write she had already ordered…
an ekphrastic golden mashup after Gwendolyn Brooks “We Real Cool” &Russell Lee’s April 13, 1941 photo “Negro Boys on Easter Morning” Carlos, Lee, Kendrick, Jaimey, me—oooooh, Wepooled the marble money, nickel cokes Real cool. Southside breeze, brave now, we laugh, we groove, We freeze, we grit teeth, oooooh, Ms. Brooks knew, y’all Left school. We unplug-the-kitchen-phone worried, We(I-brought-you-in-this-world)…
June 1900 Listen: water boils in a rusty potTonight we have rice Do you hear rain tapping the boarded-up well? Tonight I am water I am rain I am a clear brook I am washing Manuél’s hair of ants and twigs I am two hands dissolving death I am a necklace of nettles coaxed from…
Translated by Lars Gustaf Andersson and Carolyn Forché When I was about to leave, I was held back by the word “out.” I turned around, always prepared, in a labyrinth of my own. When I was about to enter I was held back by the word “in.”
Translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Ellen Doré Watson I inherited this house,which has one room I avoid,paralyzed by its icy air.I keep to a smaller spacewhere virtues and laughter,even a few seeds of joy remainintact, retain some life.But when I behold the massive entryway,I stiffen—smiling devil fearhas me in his lap:“Child, you’re very sick,let…
Double golden shovel on a line from Vera Nazarian’s Dreams of the Compass Rose In the throes of my 41st fatherless Tuesday, I am strapped deep and down inthe gut of a turbulent Boeing—keyboarding, wrestling dactyls. I wonder if thedesert, a hundred grandiose death-drops below me, is still that celluloid desert,the gilt murderer, the only…
No products in the cart.