Poetry

Apocryphal, the sweet Hawaiians, a few blue clouds like silk hooked on the shark-tooth Waianes, root-smell hanging in the rain forest, Honolulu damp with flowers: torchy African tulip, St. Thomas trees like giant, sorry, missionary lilacs, night-blooming cereus that have had their night, that shrivel at dawn like yellow sea-anemone a child collected on a…

     In that field is open summer.      Under a copper-beech three mares graze      almost without motion, and the small wind that turns the leaves through the dimensions of gold light      does not lift their manes. One sorrel,      the chestnut half in shadow, the white in sun who snuffs at a pink-flowered weed,      arching down her neck:…

Pigs loom, grunting by the shed, embarrass the decent farmer, lathered in his bathroom window. Dipped in pine-tarred water at 158°, the bleached carcasses shave so easily, bristles falling over the blade. He was beaten once for tossing diseased chickens into the pen when he'd been told to bury them. Pigs develop tastes. He can't…

In spring, when the earth turns to food and the mares thicken with what they have kept hidden through winter in their bodies and between her legs weeks early the sac grew of the thin bluish milk that is the first need, in the last days she'd come reluctantly, if then, to the wooden barn,…

Bachelors wives, and maids children, be well taught. — Thomas Heywood One by the papermill, one by pleurosis, this one is learning by harrow and plow. So frail the vessel for lessons of weight, so provident are the ways. Annabel watches the rags in their stew, and see what a mill can make of the…

You can feel dusk suck at the heat and clatter and rhythms of earnest conversations, standing a minute with the silver pitcher, letting its sweat collect beneath your palm as a secret, something for yourself, like the thought of diving on a long breath through cool water, then rising to recover, to lie motionless, face…

Instructions for this hour: First, breathe as shallowly as you can. Pretend you hear the sound of a door slamming over and over, its bright clang, then muffled reverberation. Your heart beats more quickly until your hands make involuntary fists that knock against each other like the hearts of strangers. Second, pretend you are a…

Because no one has ever asked, because the task is incumbent upon me, I want to reveal the secret gathering place of heroes: we scaled the rough, stucco wall of a row of one-story garages and loitered on the tar roof, staring down the weakening sun— Tommy O'Brien, Glenn Marshall, everyone's girl, Rosemarie Angelastro, and…

Coming home alone I've always looked for that body. It would be no one I know, and I'd sit with him in the white light of the bathroom mirror and porcelain, for once certain of death's appearance, because grief has no need of interfering. I wash him and shave him, leave him wrapped in blankets…