Poetry

Survivors

     When all the other trees are bare, why do those last few oak leaves cling up there            under the cold blue sky?            Don't they know when to die?      And to think: after the long freeze, when warmth revives and fills these empty trees            with the green stuff of spring,            they'll still…

What a Clever Design

You say, acting on it, and then You feed me wild strawberries dunked In creme fraiche, which you picked. And if you were younger, and once We were younger, and if bitter Thirst had not cloyed the thing, We say, acting on it, and if These strawberries and this one rose You picked last now,…

As Gentle As a Lamb

Ladies are outside the door; I hear them rustling, dropping keys inside their purses, snapping them shut. Mother nudges to the door. Peering through the keyhole she whistles in two tones: Hello! Hello! and lets the ladies inside. Nodding, they enter shaking their coats. Their hands strike: pale cobras hitting my cheeks making a series…

Black Fire

Madam, this is a prayer-ring from Tibet: a tiny bell to rouse the god, three silver thunderbolts, seven grains of gold. And in the center, see, an emerald, lightless, dark. . . I had it from a lama's chela whose master sent him to buy food. Here there are many beggars from the hills. You…

West Virginia Handicrafts

From the green woods, from the flashing wilderness, she selected one perfect tree. There she cut her heart, paring down to the sap-center, slippery where the bark peeled back in three inner layers. She cut first through the outer bark, its rough edges and satisfactory hurts. She peeled through the cambium, cutting the upward life…

A Little Cloud

The cloud is a bowler hat, a profile delicate and handsome, a cane, a figure falling, the plume of smoke from a train. My grandfather sits up straight, his dark eyebrows rakish and innocent. The hooded photographer shoots his plates back and forth. The cloud becomes a pigeon's wing. Caught in four o'clock November sadness,…

Quaker Oats

The grain elevators have stood empty for years. They used to feed an entire nation of children. Hunched in red leatherette breakfast nooks, fingers dreaming, children let their spoons clack on the white sides of their bowls. They stare at the carton on the table, a miniature silo with a kindly face smiling under a…