has gone mad about you and your recent remarkson black life. My father suggests cremationif I die before him because it’s cheaper.I want to be cremated. I’ve wept over a bad embalming job.Might I ask, why aren’t you online talking about my eyes?Or where you go when you want to write about hunger?Remember Denzel Washington…
We were sitting shoulder to shoulder looking at the firesin the canyon and I said something about distance, desire moving from archive to digital, I was thinking of startingsomething, despite time zones or children, husbands or wives. The clouds parted an instant, I thought I sawthe shadow of cumulus cross your face but it was…
What happens to good girls?They get presents.What happens to bad girls?They get tied up & locked in the closet. A stiletto was first a pen,Then a dagger,Now a heel.Caravaggio’s Medusa was painted on a shield.The painting itself is an object of warfare.I wear purple marks from you on myEyes & hips. Medusa’s head is full…
A day of Prosecco & maps.You inhaled the musk from my hair.You drove my childhood curves;I dressed in the part. I rode shotgun inYour dead father’s Porsche.The car he never lived to drive.The car he never could afford. Tupac took us up to the hill town,Bach Fugues brought us down.They say the first witch ever,Daughter…
“I have nothing at all to sayBut I want to say it anyway…” —Marcello Mastroianni, 8½ In my perfect 6-year-old FrenchI’m singing Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques.Dormez-vous? before the white capsand the waves’ salt spray—it’sthe only song I know to the end,the only world… Sun burningthrough the mist, white as a Eucharist,obscure as everything I hopeto one day…
your way of avoiding meis just as good as mine— one stone fence, one lastlittle field—i won’t bother anyone here if you won’t—but we ruined Saturday, agreeing to just amblein the rain when really the important strangersbeckoned us because they needed bothof us at once— strangers can bring exquisitepressure to a meeting— you turn to…
The lonely, young, blond woman in a big gray coatsits by one, small, open window all morning. The lonely, young, gray-coated womancan stay there all day. The coat cannot be gray before big.The window must be small before it is open. If the woman is lonely, she is usually lonelybefore any other word. The woman…
The neighbor’s pit-bull,who seemed determined to sniff outthe origin of the sky, disappeared months ago. What luxury. I dreamt of him last night.This time, in a field of blue delphiniums,he stepped toward mebefore vanishing as one vanisheswhen you knew them well a long time ago. On mornings like this,I let myself imagine it is himwho…
Just for once, I want to witnessthe going away. I want to catch the moment,cup it in my hands, and see it blink and glow.But in this dream, the Valley Line shrieksfrom Grand Central hours before I arrive. OrI reach Port Canaveral after the Boatswain’sfinal call. I’m alone on the pier,waving goodbye, waving come back,waving…
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