Poetry

Five women, talking while spring came: petals of the hand; the whispering of rain. One talked of loneliness; sudden alarm: four startled deer leapt into the distance. One measured the spirit the length of the night, a seismograph charting the rising of tremors. One of her husband thought always/his absence, her heart sheathed in grief,…

Tiresomely, in prose, long ago great-sonneting Berryman said that in Heart of Darkness the Congo stood for a private part, specifically a vagina, to Marlow. Now, I find that perverse, if I had to say. The continent was mysterious, the river led into its mystery, ok. But Marlow (and Conrad before him) could tell a…

Is lingering by the door With a younger sister Listening to my music. Oh come into my parlor Blush and promise to come again Should I say, “My need is great,” Or “My father married a girl much younger,” Or, “I saw you in the Moka having a milkshake.” Oh why should I, old enuf…

I love to watch the butcher wipe the sharp blade on his apron stained with fresh blood. I’m going to marry him      WHAM the side of beef split open he tenderly spreads it like a woman’s legs between smeared fingers stroking the cold smoothness from his fingertips            bloody red drops on the floor spotting…

The old man wasn’t thumbing but I picked him up. He wasn’t growing a beard, just didn’t shave and his sack, Army duffle and white, bulged with all he owned. He apologized three times for the space he was taking and he hated women. Story after story he told of waitresses who said no when…

1. The bottoms of her feet were tatooed Fear on Demand. 2. I’m sucking her magic stones from Puerto Escondido. 3. The islands on my wrists were dread. You have, she groaned, to persevere. 4. She found a homemade triangular scarf and laughed a map of blood deposits. 5. A drool chain dips along her…

(For Sister Madeline DeFrees) The old man on the prison work release gang hoeing asphalt followed us to Wilkeson and those cyrillic graves, to Carbanado and that one long empty street, Voight’s Creek and then Kapowsin and our picnic in a field of mint. Wherever we went, old haunts I wanted you to see, he…

           An Interpretation of the Paintings of            Robert Rauschenberg            for Ray Kass      There is a bird in a box,      the wildlife caged                  but all around,                  the life of the painting,                              wild      wild,      painting with disordered letters,                  the ordering      the dis                  ordering,…

One of us would spot his horse, same white as his mustache, and word traveled on warm air. While he solicited orders at doors we stole pears from his cart, that battered gray board flatbed held together by luck. He was obsolete as promise. His apples felt firm green and his cherries were loaded with…