At the edge of the night road— a dead hedgehog with its grist of hatched viscera. The beam of undipped headlights has crystallized in its yellow eyes. Dead hedgehog and I neither quickening my heartbeat nor slackening my pace.
When my love walks, the fetus sways asleep, its face covered with fur. She walks to work. She walks under the trees, through the dilapidated halls, telling her students you can do it. But when she comes home, and lies down, tired and willing to forget herself, it begins: the kicking, the panic within. She…
The names of stars: Sirius. Arcturus, Alpha Centauri, Vega. The names of Hungarians: Laszlo, Tibor, Zoltan, Sandor. The names of the great rivers: Nile, Congo, Amazon, Orinoco, Zambezi. The names of ships: African Dawn, China Bear, Coral Sea, Delta Queen. The names of the Spanish explorers: Cortez, Balboa, De Soto, Coronado. The names on the…
Love abandons you fear abandons you the summers fall on you in sheaves and who will — as you grow more fragile and smaller when the wind blows upward at the edge of the precipice — hold you back with a gentle touch.
We listen for the clear voice of our rooster, with all his might demanding the day. There is only quiet, a weak light coming anyway. I’ve looked wherever a bird unfit for life in the wild might hide. It was his coop, his kingdom. He showed the cat his wrath. He sparked the little fleck…
Touch my hand from the outer edge, touch it firmly but gentle be, try to find the radial artery. Heavy lids pull off delicately and exercise the pupils' reflexes. Put the mirror close to my mouth and see if breath clouds the glass. If nothing can be caught shroud me in sleek silk, press the…
Your six kids search for you all over Yakima. We don't find you in the corner bar, the lights low, your spirits high, sipping one last brandy. We don't find you sitting on a bench, shoulders stooped, waiting for the last bus home. We find you miles from town, lost, gazing at spring apple trees…
Dawning, but for whom? He lies unconscious, broken by the surf of sleep, marbled skin and bluish lips, green anisocorion. A bond of godhead almost extinguished with the arriving blood-red dawn. Who now can conjure feeling for someone permeated by dark and light of spent passion, whose shrivelled lips remind one of worn fruit? Let…
The first has a town for a setting, with a tower and a street with trees, and in their shade farmers' wives selling the fruit of their labors and the handiwork of their daughters. The men are sitting under the trellis of the Cheval Blanc or in the Café du Soleil and the talk is…
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