Monthly Archives: April 2012
I know this poet who is really a painter, who draws himself with hand on forehead while a shadow of himself made up of millions of tiny men taps on his shoulder. He talks like New York has teeth made … Continue reading
Let me fall asleep while I tell you about Grace, and how she spoke so softly. She used to take me out and show me her favorite brands of jeans and dresses. She’d have me come to McDonald’s with her … Continue reading
I have two days left to write 15 poems. How is that going to work?
Last night I woke up to my body, a constellation of pain. Each joint, elbow, knee, wrist and ankle, every finger a glowing star of ache. I would say it more plainly, but the body dreams in galaxy and heat … Continue reading
Sunshine is a poet, says her arm, cut-out-heart with scissor a permanent stamp; a new name. Sunshine makes coffee, makes chai and latte, sunshine is not her name. Smiles slow as chemex, steams the milk with her eyes closed, hair … Continue reading
Anna Karenina backstrokes the moon, while my mother bathes Lyndsay in the kitchen sink. I marvel at the bubbles, the glow of outerbridge stretching toward New Jersey. Women’s bodies bend; the heart hardly fits in a cage made of bone; … Continue reading
I am falling behind. Always waiting for that light to roll over the bridge or for the flowers in our garden to bloom. The city gets pretty in spring time. We eat together more, and it gives me patience that … Continue reading