Poetry

Doorways. Windows. Fences. Verges.

Tall in the doorway stands the gentle visitor. I catch my breath.      (She's quite deaf,      not interested in      details of my décor.      Her few words amaze me.      Her visits are irregular,      brief. When our eyes meet      how I am drawn to her.      I keep honey cream, in case,      in the freezer. Once      she stayed for…

Past Lives

It's a habit what we remember in what moods or places. That night, I thought, calmed by the food and wine, I could have walked with you until the twelfth of never or something like that. So we walked like that, hours through the Marais studying doors, vestibules, courtyards in the brimming three-quarter moonlight. Pit-stopped,…

The Fortunate Spill

Note: Traditionally, black-eyed peas are served on New Year's Eve. Each black-eyed pea one eats brings luck.      Well! Johnnie thinks. He has his nerve! Crashing this party! What stuck-up conceit! Passing his induction papers around; another Negro whose feet never touch the ground. His name is Melvin Nelson. In his eyes the black of dreams…

Autumn Clean-Up

There she is in her garden bowing & dipping, reaching stretched with her shears— a dancer commanding forces no one else any more fears. The garden's not enclosed. It encloses her. It helps her hold her bliss. (She is too shy for transports.) It helps keep her whole when grief for unchangeable reasons waits to…

The Children of Abergavenny

There's a train coming down the pike. We were Hilary, Pat, Lori and me. I haven't thought of them since that day in Abergavenny. We'd set out for Wales, Lori and I knapsack-backed. She with the feather in her purple hat. Hilary and Pat came east and tacked through Dublin to meet us at Abergavenny….

Ice

1. She sits reading the end of Hans Brinker, and tugs faded flannel over her tucked-up feet so no bit of them can show. She hears him yell “Damn you! You've made us late again, will you—” and her mother, something too soft to hear. She holds her breath; relaxes: nothing falls. When the doorbell…

What It Would Be Like

this is the woman sons look for when they leave their wives —Leslie Ullman Husband Again tonight he sees her eyes burning in the common flame. Windows, too, give him her image at strange times. He begins to breathe like the first daffodils punctuating the April grass. The miles to work he dreams: she rides…

Morning Exercise

Distance doesn't matter. Not dreams of home or morning filtered through a darker pane or the timbre of his voice in every room or blaming every cruelty on the place or letters no longer expected, unreceived or pigeons streaming bloodless through the sky. Only this wafer of unbending light redeemed a song by all the…