Poetry

Twenty-one turkeys amaze our eyes, come traveling north from the Berkshire Museum (Art and Natural History). It says there boa constrictors do not harm humans. False Laocoön! not to mention Eden.      On Route 7 nobody stops; but if they had a gun (or a camera in Yellowstone) they'd stop to shoot the hideous buffalo. Turkeys…

Then. No. Now. A long silk scarf of voice, pulled through the loop of throat— Jo Stafford singing on the radio. He wants so much to hear a voice like that, and it exists, as simply as creation, the way the world provides an image for the feeling that's richer than the feeling, so that…

Eat a third, drink a third, and leave a third for anger. And after waking rise slowly. And after lovemaking rise slowly. And after too much wine rise slowly. And after bloodletting rise slowly. We rise slowly after silence, taking a breath at a time. After days bent over the garden, slight comment about our…

She sits in her strong middle age Near his white and iron cage And bites her lip, hearing him moan. She cannot make her strength his own. She cannot answer to the call Of that deep voice. When he was small, O red-faced cry that she could still! O groping mouth that she could fill!…

I. The fields are frozen, swart rows banded white with ribbons of ice, each a horizon planted with a sun. The station wagon's old back end takes the ruts shocklessly, waking everyone, even the potential son- in-law whose carousing late last night merited a bowed-head-in-hands. The light scissoring at him, however, is not unexpected. “If…

Snipped at the neck— tangerine roe, milky innards, their mouths jerked open for a final sentence. One bowl of guts and eyes, one of their stiff, edible bodies. The baby inside me bolts. “Off with their heads, off with their heads.” My three-year-old marches the kitchen keen for dinner. She pauses only for a vase…

1. Lately in her full arms I had felt the things That would not go, the hands: She had gathered to herself Some part of all of the fingers Of all of the men who had Touched her there, Florencio, His broad fingers like past winter gloves, Caetano who was matches, Cesar, who could only…

In the middle of the line under my reading eye a spot of fot. It makes faint an e, then a y, and travels to the right. In the next line the spot expands, shifts and erases a whole word. I close my eyes and see a tiny bright buzz saw that flickers. Opened, my…

For the fountain of water flows ever with the water of the spirit, having the one and only Fish, taken with the hook of divinity, which feeds the whole world, as if dwelling in the sea, with its own flesh. —Narratio rerum quae in Perside acciderunt The first wild flowers on Suicide Hill were birdfoot…