There’s no heroism to it.Like getting dressed in the morning,it’s just practice: force my head past the collar,squiggle to pull up the zipperbehind my back, slither into tightsand distinguish blue pumps from black.I pour the cereal in my bowl the same wayeach morning because that’s how it’s done—life, the whole scribbled mess of it.There’s no…
ashes ~ strong sunlight interacting with green, the leaf an enginetrembling in the wind ~ fur and flies ~ the stars behind the clouds ~ gasas a mass ~ the sweat on my back, carrying down my spine the tracesof sweat four centuries old that ran into wounds ~ recycled survival ~the blue-black of the pacific floor and the tentacles pulling life across it~ the pulsing limitations of a…
At Christmastime we stay only one night,and it’s a dump—burn holes in brown carpet,no air. We keep the window open tothe swamp, listen to raccoons and musk ratspitch in the marsh as they give last fight tothe gators devouring. The next threedays we drive in separate cars three hourseach way to get to the specialist,…
I. Is the Constitution the threadthat holds the country freetogether, or not? For years, both saidno; now one picks up the threadand—apostate—changes his mind.Is it a proslavery, an antislaverydocument, or is it a threadthat cannot hold two men together, nor set them free? II. Whose pride undid the thread?Brothers, who was remiss?Method, alliance, creed—or some…
The Sentencing of John Punch to Perpetual Slavery, Virginia, 1640 To take a fistful of tobacco—after mixing the gnat-size seeds with sand, after scattering,after thinning the seedlings, after hoeing the knee-high hills,after picking cutworm larvae or tobacco flea beetlesfrom the dusty leaves, after priming and topping,after the cutting, hanging the leaves in the barn-loft to…
translated by Jhumpa Lahiri I found a notebook filled with poems, written in Italian, in my desk inRome. I am trying to understand who wrote them. It may be a womannamed “Nerina,” which is the only thing written on the cover of thenotebook. I’d like to know forcertain who ate that pearperfectly, with such respect,leaving…
When I press my fingertips together and makea tangerine-size space that the light comes through I see God there a little bit—a glowy something I try to press deeper inpast the flesh and bone my breath pulls into it to hold it theredeeper stillerand I worry about dying then about how my small cradle of…
No one’s gonna say it, but your baby’s ugly.It’s not your fault. All babies look like aliens.This is another thing I said a little drunkthat I meant with my whole heartand every time my mouth opens the thing I meancomes out, but it comes out wrong.The ice caps are melting. Soon no one will knowwe…
What were you listening to, Great-Gramma,down at the lake, that Saturday nitewhen you felt you couldn’t breathe? Not those loriders waxed and raring, the way souped-upcarburetors suck oxygen to dragalong the strip, your gulping breaths, gurgling,ineffective. The ambulance fetched you.In the hospital, they lopped off your thick braids(to think you never grayed!) “for convenience”or “to…
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