Poetry

Women Are Doomed to Be the Angels of Love

 

This is so true I involuntarily doodle hearts everywhere I go. I sign my letters compulsively with hearts,

dream of disobedient hearts, work with hearts. I eat them. I boil sauces and the tomatoes on my cutting board form a daisy chain heart. My foot is a pretty ballet slipper, . . .

Read more

Late Spring

 

is the most important. Everything else is just an excuse for it.

E.g. weather in medium shot that you take extremely

seriously. Cloud above German city, white, covering

the blue, dispersing into formlessness, gossamer

and dissipating like ancient knowledge. . . .

Read more

Self-Portrait with Braid

 

In the morning my eyes look thirsty

like a willow leaning toward

its reflection. My mother waits

 

inside the circles. One day

I will remember her at her last age

and see her peering from the windows

  . . .

Read more

Good-bye to Golden Nights

 

If measuring

one’s life as circular

makes sense of movement,

how should we muscle

meaning into days?

As if we end up

where we’ve dreamt,

starlight for eyes

and train static

within the folds

of memory. . . .

Read more

Hit It

 

You don’t have to believe in the Devil

to end up with him. God’s not so easy.

 

Say God takes the form of an egret.

Say the Devil also takes the form of an egret.

  . . .

Read more

Still Lifes and Landscapes

 

Morning in the mountains. I am going down home

early. The road empty, wide, smooth as my hand.

Sun streams heavy bays of light. If I could remember one

use of beauty, the persistent type, on whole unhuman,

so much more space made for possible peace. . . .

Read more

So you will never find me

 

So you will never find me—

In this life—with a sharp and invisible

Fence, I encircle myself

 

With honeysuckle, bind myself,

With hoarfrost, cover myself.

 

So you will never hear me

At night—with a crone’s subtlety:

With reticence—I fortify myself. . . .

Read more

Riddle

 

We do not recognize the body

Of Emmett Till. We do not know

The boy’s name nor the sound

Of his mother wailing. We have

Never heard a mother wailing. 

We do not know the history

Of ourselves in this nation. . . .

Read more

Valley of Knowledge

 

Enter the Valley of Knowledge,

with its boundless myriad roads

unfurling in every direction.

 

Here, no path resembles the next.

Here, the traveler of the body is different

from the traveler of the soul. . . .

Read more

Real Estate Ode

 

If the Pyramid at Giza were 

at Bleecker and LaGuardia, 

the base would extend down to West Broadway 

and Spring, and across Spring to Mercer, 

and up Mercer to Bleecker and across 

Bleecker to LaGuardia,

sloping up on four sides

to its peak the height of the skyscraper

on Spring and Varick. . . .

Read more

Lap Dance

 

I think everyone’s glad I’m dead, said the stripper

with the caved-in face. Her fingers were bone with no

sinew. She flapped her arms at the two wrens

caught up in the rafters and staring down

on the empty dance hall at the Möbius Strip Club

of Grief. . . .

Read more

Two Birds in the Evening

 

When that oriole whistled from the orchard

it seemed frankly to be asking, You got

a problem with that? Its orange and black

was brash as a high-school letter sweater.

No problem, no problem, . . .

Read more