Poetry

For the last time I lie harbored in the bed, tied like a boat to my husband. I think everyone has died. The season mumbles in the hills, I stay to hear if it is summer envying even this cold wind that finds its way into the house. Oh sad to clean the floor and…

The warmest waters beckon and blind. Once I believed time could be owned, returned to, that I could find my childhood the way I find a grave. A man fishes all day beneath the sun. He could be your father leaving the river, body like a tree, the root invisible, come to rest in the…

We begin the long climb. Every few yards you put the hill between us like someone moving furniture. Above, there is the castle tightening its splendid fist of rock. We turn to watch the prisoners’ children journey from their school across the fields. Their heads are shaved, they wear blue smocks and holding hands approach,…

A shopkeeper ruffles an awning. It is 5 o’clock, quiet, except where children play a block away. Poor dogs, they start to want to die. At the corner a vendor interrupts our embrace with cries of “knives, knives.” Two strangers, meeting again after seven years. Is it possible to be transformed? I speak to silence…

Intimate agonies should be wordless as birds, small dull birds in dark scary woods, but they don’t care how they talk or what beasts inside they become to break out. The wind through those woods grows with them, humming all night beneath hearing like wire inside a building, a wind pressing so gently you’d think…

Someone you don’t know parks his blue pickup in front of your house and sits there smoking; then he drinks something, and sure enough, pretty soon, a small, anxious looking woman with black hair shows up, her rings and fancy coat at odds with everything— but who cares? They kiss, look around, kiss again, then…

Each day the white bones grow sharper. You peck your food in an acquired way. Sixteen, you look outside and know      not all the winter birds at the feeder      are the same ones each year;      some die, some fly farther south.      But most are there feeding even      when you are not there to watch them….

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…