Poetry

We stumble in your room – but you, pretending to be asleep, don’t stir even when we cover you with the extra blanket. Mornings, when we ask you how you are, you yawn and cough, pretending not to have heard a word we said. You don’t seem well to me. I press my hand against…

There was sun on the cobwebs this morning, brick exposed on an unfixed wall. Your bright hands opened with names for each thing you touched. You let go of your palms’ fourth lines. The clouds that you wanted opened like clothes on a clear, blue chest. The trees grew warm, and melted their shade under…

Abstraction growing bones, landscape built up grain by grain, sand cut by the thin line of a river, pelvis and flower in the changing light, and I am here. All afternoon wind around the house; tips of the willow yellow as summer writhe before my window. What was my first poem? Myth of the Ghostly…

“We must not be outgrown, not given away,” is what my old clothes start to say to me as if they were teeth or nails or hair, as if my soil were theirs and I the sharecropper. Such cling and claim. Long lost sweaters cry on my shoulder, old coats sigh to be delivered from…

my mother and my sister near an old black fifties ChevyChevy my sister in a nest between my mother’s arms you can just see certain parts of my mother like a branch in a back drop I’m in several with her standing in back her arms around me her prize melon a book just she…

We could not cook down there. It was like a black mouth we lived inside. But who was speaking? What language were we? In the darkness the odors made my nose itch. Cold salami, figs, raw peppers and onions, bread and garlic, bodies of young women like me, men smoking stale tobacco. Your father was…

The man said to me, Did you used to live in so-and-so, and I answered yes. Across the street, the opera had just let out. A good cold rain had stopped. My window faces a part of the sky that’s never red. At either end of the day, some loosening behind the trees, a little…

in the back room where the safe is in the backroom with a sick baby crying my grandmother tapping the pane under the apples leaves my mother is 8 she new doll’s head lies smashed on the floor she is hating her brother spirea on the sidewalk she is hating her brother and running into…

When I see the mules lurching down the hillside, tobacco sheaves quivering like ragmops, I can’t see myself anywhere else. My village below is a failing hive, the young swarming into adulthood to feed the honeycomb America. Wives hover alone by their doors, watching the dust, daughters move in pairs buying bread and salt. They…