Poetry

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Sunday afternoon on 91st St. Two sisters Wore sailor hats and navy reefers: HMS Elizabeth held both her parents' hands. I, HMS Blenheim, trotted alone, snorting at the traffic. The family headed for a visit to The Planetarium where the moon raced, crazy, And the world came off its axis, And I made a run…

White cottonwood tufts fill the air like moths; we rub our eyes in the filmy atmosphere thick with white dreams, while down the road at the Sagebrush Inn, a Seeing Eye dog sleeps beneath the piano where his mistress practices Linda Ronstadt's greatest hits. Afternoon. The room is empty except for the bartender swatting at…

for Danielle Inseminator, hole-scrubber, midwife, you ache from the scuffle and weight of hauling the troubled cow into stanchions, of thrusting your leek-long arms inside to free the breech that fell against your chest, a steaming new world veined in fading latitudes. Inside the dimly lit birth sac lies the earth-colored calf already weaned from…

Three deer stare into the dark rooms as if I had something they could take back with them. Opaque at the window, I breathe with the house. Now they dent the thick-ribbed ice with their fine hooves for apples preserved like rubies under glass. They are simple as monks gathered in the orchard after vespers,…

They walk into the air at dawn. The man and woman trying to birth the baby. Along the stretch to the lying-in hospital she summons cows she has seen—docile, steadfast in the way sea is always pregnant and ready to give and destroy at the same time. Patience covers her like a shield against women…

Kneeling in the dark street I gathered the dog's body against my chest and his cobalt eye rolled forward, sightless as a doll's. Afterwards in the changed rooms his shadow curled his taste and smell on every chair. In the desert, a starving coyote rips a chicken from my neighbor's coop. My neighbor honors him…

Here on the phone is Miss Patricia Mitchell Of Nacogdoches, Texas, who is writing her term paper About a poem of mine she wants to ask about. “It's such a privilege, Mr. N,” she says, “Just to pick up the phone and talk to you.” “The others in the class are writing theirs On W…

after Lewis Hine Maybe her crossed black and white eyes wept, as each acceleration of the immense cotton lyre deafened her. Maybe the voice and face of Jesus comforted her breathing, in the mill's fire- inhibiting drenched air. What's clear is this: dazed, grateful, she stood one day at the picket gate, just there, smiling…