Kat Harvey

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  —after Casper (1995)   In Friendship, Maine, in the mansion of Whipstaff I waft in eyelet lace, floor-length out the steamer trunk.   There are steeples and myrtle and my dad, who says, ’Night, Bucket, Mom who said, Stardust … Read More

The Green Streetlight

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  The ineffable… I’ve walked into your trap. I went to a spring late at night and froze like an armless statue in the middle of an autumn garden. What should I do? Should I grab with my teeth the … Read More

Night Sky

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  Our troubles show up like stars disturbing the blank night, petty compared to the moon, jewel in a black velvet case, but grouped in constellations, what satisfying tales. The big and little dippers quench our thirst to be tragic … Read More

Everything I Let Go of

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  One of us is dead. One of us sleeps in his van, parked at the curb in front of his sister’s house. I’ve just retired.   In the morning I walk through the gray woods listening to the birds, … Read More

Let Me Copy the Rest of That Poem

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  Oh what longing, my dear young friend Each prison night I dream of your smile— Kissing my sleeve, I imagine your hair My lips are bitter, my body icy   Don’t hate the rain, my dear young friend I … Read More

Rainy Season in the Highlands

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  A swallow, a hazardous stretch of road A tall waterfall, heard through a long night Step quickly across a vanished river Wait for rain in the flutter of butterflies   A ghost calls your name each morning Day by … Read More

Seiche

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  The rift lake, too, refuses coherence of any sort. Its ice encircled by trees—dark though sloeless—   whose unleafed limbs yaw untroubled by snow in its own right dense and historical. And so,   let us forget all metronymic … Read More

War Poem

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  “You will get through this hard time. There will be other hard times.” —Siku   Harrow harder, asper. The rude heart must continue to blurt & bluster & batter. We’ve known never the latterly sweetness he’s been after. I … Read More

The Mihrab

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  is the closest you can get to God. When I was young I was in the habit of rolling up pages from the Quran and pushing them into my back pocket, believing if I trapped the voice long enough … Read More

Portrait of Us Burning

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  If the morning scaffolds, then night prayers come. If years ago, Mother & Father ate only rice & beans, then we slept in one bunk bed & Saturdays were for chilaquiles & Sundays for church—weekly buffets & big screens, … Read More

i sugared your sorrows

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  for ninety-nine cents / pulpy, stringy, filmy, fibrous   the first time we were alone / a texture only you have felt   after the dust speck inside you / particle, granule, miniscule, needlepoint   spilled out, slapping toilet … Read More

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