Black summers have baked the yellow stone. Now, wall and earth inseparable: a thickly floored hole. Fat dress-and-scarf-drenched woman. Under a grey stone a lizard squints. Past here are watches But now, in the simmer of a weekly afternoon, A small drum, answering the shofarm here, where Women dumped their babies on the pointed rock….
1. I keep listening. Where are the words? I wander between stations. The damnation of the beloved Keeps me in fascination. Who shall be made real? 2. Will you arrive With your soft dresses Rolled away in your suitcase? Will you speak elegantly of clouds, Of forgotten shapes? Will you tell me with your subtlety…
When his small skiff returned alone, like a horse who’s lost its rider, the relatives sat down on stones by the shore and waited for the tide to bring him, also. He had wanted to row back, singular and drunk, from a wedding on a neighbor island, just a few real miles away across the…
everything i have i feed the house he eats it up, starved money from readings paint yesterday he swallowed half a grant what i’d saved to fly out of the snow that eats his windows my lover is quite jealous of his mouth put it on the market he spits in his sleep as the…
Once words stunned the field, like sudden rain, as if Rain were the name of a woman, whose eyes drenched yours alive in the full torrent of saying exactly what she wanted to say. Then husbandry took over: the dry stare of a dry bush, piling one odd rock on top of another odd rock…
(—for Gary Wilson & in memorium: Kenneth Wilson, 1943-1977) The brutal shift: one minute present—then a week on the delicate liferaft of coma—and the next: past. You honestly begged for him a few more diamonds of breath, until the last luminant exhalation exhaled. Your brother gone and the long O sounds of your own…
i’m still thin and high on having the biopsy negative tho i don’t know where to go after the artists place in the trees The husband who will leave and leave until he can’t come home is back after the first time pleading lyn his nagging is a sticky lullaby i almost don’t hear thru…
Phipp’s wife, Bettina Feather Phipps, was convalescent on a blue-striped chaise from the impositions of her daily life: “And cook, who should be legally barred from cooking for others, preparing my lunch of native asparagus on triangles of toast— the slight relief in my semi-invalid’s regime— curdled the bechamel and burnt the toast, and served…
Put it this way, lovey, some people stab themselves with their own strength: stubbornly clinging, when all the best of collective wisdom, not just your parents, but your friends, too—calls up the feral outline of a lover that love for yourself should let you let go. Thinking about it, I had it all so clear…
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