Poetry

Loosely bound and buttoned on a pole, clothed in the      gardener's cottons, the scarecrow stretches as if to feign sleepiness, and sparrows spurt from the garden, beyond his sleeves. He swells, and soft green light invades the narrow rib, a space to fit a      life in, but the breeze drops. It seems he needs only…

The middle of something is hardest to hold—this not knowing. Under the snow and rain, the forsythia is fat with bloom. A sign? After the officer reported those unidentified remains weren’t yours, I had to say something; I had to sit down and write a letter you wouldn’t read. I told you it took six…

There are those I attempt to describe. The words always fail. One man has a face of winter and only summer words find me. Or worse: the words of spring which trample the winter face. It is not as romantic as a curse. I find my first two names in a cemetery. Every moment life…

On a dawn walk I startled a great horned owl, wary, near, on a low limb of a tree downhill from me. Those slow wings opened, broad as a man, two men, and he sank fast down into the hillside in blank silence, a wall toppling its whole enormous length that does not touch a…

My students, pink as Barbie Dolls, Clean as the coins they slip Into arcade games at the mall, Live in tenements of ignorance. Headlines are meant for someone Else's worry, like taxes Or insurance on the Camaro Which Dad sees to. When it comes To Winnies, they don't know Mandela From Pooh. In the film,…

I There is a place between the shoulder and the neck Where everyone wants to be saved. And another where the leg slices the heavy hip. These are arable fields, for human hands only. You speak my name like you need it And mine for veins Which will ring your own name Like a pick…

You are not yet asleep, your breathing slides deep into the sound of rain, its various sounds: the tap on the tin roof, the slash as it blows across the screen, a swish that washes across the shingle siding, it drums up against the window, the heavy gush from the crotch in the roof then…

Your coffin was pine, a simple fact. Gravediggers in overalls brought sturdy shovels, worn with use and we stepped forward one by one: Heft of the handle in my hand. A spadeful of earth. On my last letter to the hospital I printed crazily, please forward. I told myself you might be going home, knew…

Goodbye people of Armero. Never again shall you dance nor drink ale at the tiendas. Next week are scheduled no first communions no more patio piñatas; no church bells toll no idlers stroll along the Calle Mariscal Sucre. Doña Flor, her customers, will serve no more and the spade of Don José will turn no…