The Subject
is love.
The form is bulbous.
There are echoes of horses,of cranes flying low,their throats’ rumbleas they land.
There is panic spreadingas you age.
There are echoes...
Penelope
Walking down a riverbank, Seine or ThamesI stopped to sit in a wrought-iron wafflechair, the kind that leaves its imprint on your skin.Soon the...
My Grandmother's Body
When the funeral director comes to
retrieve my grandmother’s body, a nighttime
response to my aunt’s inevitable call,
he wears his funeral-director suit.
He leaves the...
At the Annual Christmas Party, Grasping a Small Plate of Hors d'oeuvres
Our skin sheds in the most inconvenient places.
One moment, you are alone in...
Splinters
Dad’s gonna boil a needle,
poke your hand until it bleeds clean.
Lisa asks if I want to count stars after dinner.
I am bored with it
because...
MORE
I start the wash
feed the dog
clear the phone
take in the mail
But
And
Knowing I have left you there
wanting more
is a song
writing itself in my smallest bones
Catharine...
Me, First
Even the buzzards are beautiful
in this slant light, underwings backlit by the sun
The boat launch is deserted
just me on a picnic table under...
