Poetry

To be alive to witness the snakes’ return to chase the papists and britons from Faerieland allowing Patrick’s sisters prayers to Druid gods: O pagan green! Mo Chraoibhin Cno! Siobhan, throw your ribbon round the last six. Braid them tightly, let them rest close on the velvet hills: O pagan green! Mo Chraoibhin Cno! And…

for Katherine Who knows why we talk of death this evening, warm beyond the measure of breath; it will be cool tomorrow for in the waters off Long Beach my brother’s ashes still collect the flowers of my mother and father, my sister dropped in the vase of a face they made of old places,…

(for Peppino) We loiter in the cobblestone alley, Beans, Clams, Yom-Yom and me smoking punk. Snip the wiry stem, trim the nubby end, scratch fire from a zipper, then pass the stink around. William Penn designed these city blocks, rectangular, brick, cross-hatched by alleys to prevent the spread of fire. So fire climbs down my…

There are times that falter like flowers in front of me, and times that take root in my chest like a change of heart. Certain kinds of foliage respond to me. Ferns, for example, are onlookers. There are also flowers that have died, only to be born again like old opinions. Perhaps it’s true that…

I get there with a huge sack slung over my shoulder: brown, with patches. The gate is locked, the moon up like a thumb. I came through the forest where the spider balances on its web, carrying eggs for the branch. I came through the valley where the slow rope of mountain climbers let themselves…

I tried to say the truth But the truth kept going away. It always belonged to somebody else, It kept refusing to belong to me. This got up my fighting spirit As I said, the truth belongs to me, I will show it to you, listen to me, I have the truth locked in my…

Atomized grandmother, recluse, generation gone to fragments, I am above Chicago for the last time, meeting you outside the window, still alone in your lonely particles. A drift of shattered lace and bones. I fly through your rising dust, cutting through like a scythe, above you and with you. And now we are flying together,…

We put aside a daughter: shoebox of ashes tucked beneath a fruit tree that half-bloomed in sandy soil behind the barn. Locals said her life was with another man. In His home, they said, she is His tree. He climbs her, this sufferer, heart so wan. Jesus on the tree! The unfinished son, an idea’s…

She was not yet six, hale and well-looking, farmed out, as her siblings had been; ward of a Putnam, whose relatives      had brought the charges against her — she had taken the shape of a dog, they said, and was roaming the countryside,      biting the girls. No man relished presenting her in court. The marshal,…