Poetry

The opening to another country was always insidemy father’s mind, in many forms, in dreams: green swords swirling in a winter mist, colorful moths, sometimesa molar falling out, porcelain clattering onto the table like a single rung chime. When I come into the house, I am heldby him, become a child again. The view from…

now my mother wants to walk out to the rock,the two of us on the wide empty trail, blastedred dust in every direction, fat black flies diving into our faces.this is before she got sick, though i supposethe disease is still there,heat-shimmer under her feet, stones closed over scorpions, over vipers,cracks in the earth deep…

The aunt witha wand directsthe boys Pushthat sofa catty-cornered.They do and thinkit’s a fresh start. Itheld that spot oncebefore they wereborn. But ourwomen get an itch.When the boysnot around we movethe furnitureagain ourselvesleaning our shouldersinto chifforobes, making finescratches on the floor.When that don’t workwe trim our hair or sitfor hours getting braids.Come home, take themout,…

Because loss is the back of the photographwe never look at, I write your deathbedscenario on the palm of my handwhile your husband prays and your motherbrings dessert to the funeral. So sensitive,I hear you say at the edge of heaven, the endof history, so strange how we’re herefor only an eyeflash. You stumblewith your…

Like the deer who kept returningto our office because for monthsthe receptionist left salt licksin the underbrush.                                        How would it knowthe receptionist died sleddingwith her children in a late spring snow?                                        Sometimes painbecomes the deer—it keeps showing upthough I have nothing to give it,so I watch it from my office windowuntil it turns, tilts its head at…

Now your child can visit steamy jungles, grassy plains,and the dark depths of the oceans. To meet and learnsurprising facts about the magnificent animals thatlive there!—Zoobooks Commercial Today, I’ve been lying 40 minutes in the grass with a book, at the quad,in between paths both running together and nowhere, purposefully expeditious, of the University I…

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…