Poetry

I Watched a Box Kite Swoon

My mother has never died yet. My father has died oh so many years ago. I have never died yet though I have not died from trying. What is the most profound tragedy that can befall a family? And the dream answered: The death of the primary wage-earner. My sister has never died yet though…

Nashville, 1999

“What’s for you won’t go by you,” he told me, the great, recalcitrant songwriter so heavy-browed with doubt and kindness. I was eighteen and had taken a Greyhound from New York to Nashville to find him, my corduroys indistinguishable from my self. That whole wolf-on-skates year his music had saved me, made me feel something…

Running Away

I found a boat tied up at the water’s edge, rocking, rope frayed, oars banging in their locks. At home, you never knew what might happen. A surprise a minute, they say. In the distance dark clouds, no trace of the other shore. It might have been wise to have brought a compass and life…

Nocturnal

We’d only just begun to scratch the floors  with our own furniture, unfold the box flaps  and hang the walls to look like our walls  in the old apartment: familiar faces, fruits.  Then we heard it, the long scrapes in deep   grooves overhead. It came from the devil’s  peak, after we’d turned the bedroom into the…

Notre-Dame

Like a pomegranate, I wore my garnets quietly. Nude lip, beige tongue. I took the shape of clouds passing by. I was a tool for divination—you used me to find water & blamed me when I drank. We dreaded you together. Still, I kept my smile on, even when you hid the key to my…

Speaker Phone: Our Father, the Great Plains

          Sometimes, we let ourselves believe we’re talking to his ghost. Sometimes, we think memory, its rhyme.           How long can you stay           afloat? my sister asks when he admits to paying his ex-girlfriend’s rent again. He doesn’t care           that she’s seeing other men           and avoids his calls— doesn’t care that he owes back-taxes and hasn’t held…

Lightning Bug Ode

Where are the flying stars of my childhood? Evenings lit like a glitterball’s sparkle against the night’s dim walls. Their absence is like aging: one less pulse each year. I want my childhood of darkness bedazzled again with shards of light— my tiny lighthouses, my suburbs of surprise— where the shadows of dogwoods and crepe…