Poetry

He didn't really like travel, of course. He liked the idea of travel, and the memory of travel, but not travel itself. —Julian Barnes Is there anyone but must repress a secret thrill, on arriving in Venice for the first time and stepping into a Venetian gondola? That singular conveyance, come down unchanged from ballad…

Say I chew desire and water is an explosion of sugar wings in my mouth. Say it tastes of you. Say I could drown because you left for the time it takes a blackbird to understand a pine tree. Say we enter the pine woods at dawn. We never slept and the only opium we…

For Dennis Brutus, who said that during his childhood, his mother recited Longfellow's poems while they did the household chores. A rag rubs on brown soap, swishes yellow lather to nameless plates with chipped rims. She begins by the shining big sea water as I dip dishes in steamy basin. In our tin-roofed township wigwam…

     In the thick adobe harvest room back of the old family house he watches his sister gather into bushel baskets caps and whiskey bottles. From his bed he hears her children playing outside, probably priming the old pump beside the cottonwood later they will climb. Sometimes      they seem far away.           Now on the front porch…

She was abrupt and glad, like an ostrich. On the day of her death, the Nile got up and tore at its hair in astonishment and grief. The Nile got up and walked abroad and wept and argued and spread upon the desert first a shroud of water and then a shroud of endless clay….

The wind blows lilacs out of the east. And it isn't lilac season. And I am walking the street in front of St. Francis Cathedral in Santa Fe. Oh, and it's a few years earlier and more. That's how you tell real time. It is here, it is there. The lilacs have taken over everything:…

These are words without music In a mist that almost made rage mysterious. In silence like the silence after barn burnings, We cannot speak of what happened. A mist almost made rage mysterious: Your fist on my car window, my jaw. We cannot speak of what happened On a dirt shoulder in the dark. Your…

to Alma Graham I am a slave girl, twelve years old,      speaking across centuries. They chose me because I was pretty, young,      a virgin, dispensable, and all unknowing, but I know how they will pile      heaps of corn and pumpkins upon my carriage and fast seven days      and offer their own dried blood to me…

I've set six stones in a row near the eastern shore above where the tide can touch them to mark the time gone since they took her away My feet trace the usual paths past cooksmoke the place where she slept But inside something has changed I dream of her first blood slipping from her…