Features

Epithalamion

 

When I was a girl in Wisconsin, I dreamed I ’d marry

a man from Michigan. Then I did. When I was a man

from Michigan, I dreamed I ’d marry a begonia,

flowers choked with pollen. When I was a flower

from Michigan, . . .

Read more

Invisible Star Maps

For my stepdaughter Kari Harvey (23 December 1982–10 May 2016)

We know that we have passed out of death into life.

—1 John 3:14

Wherever we go we leave a thumbprint of the soul.

Ghosts of words we never said fill the rooms we leave. . . .

Read more

Left

She broke all his moments in half with the kitchen door standing open.

—Anne Carson, “The Glass Essay”

 

A Good Place to Dig

When my mother left, I had no idea of her leaving. She took nothing with her, . . .

Read more

Dazzle, Mimic, Blend

Recently, after writing for a long while on World War II, I was exhausted by the subject, which had become a joyless task—as it sometimes needs to be. But then, the Saturday night of Labor Day weekend, my husband and I took our daughters to The Buck, a family-friendly motorsports park fifteen miles outside of Lancaster, . . .

Read more

The Consort

The Santa Lucia station swarmed with security guards, choking off all water traffic. And Carlo sat sulking in his gondola, an American couple in his charge, their faces burning a bright shrimp pink as they strained to get a look at the pop star.

In a reproduction of Cleopatra’s gilded barge, . . .

Read more

The Failure of My Music

I was cleaning the garage and then

the garage was clean. The voice

from the radio sounded shocked

by another mass shooting

but went on about the government

officials and their take on the violence,

which had nothing to do with pain

but was instead about elections. . . .

Read more

In Praise of My Manicure

Because I was taught all my life to blend in, I want

my fingernails to blend out: like preschoolers

 

who stomp their rain boots in a parking lot, like coins

who wink at you from the scatter-bottom of a fountain, . . .

Read more