poetry

  At the funeral, they sprinkled grains of dirt into my palm, but I saw no point in throwing them into a hole that could never be filled. The only way to get rid of a hole is to remove … Read More

  There were, of course, the doctor appointments you accompanied me to, after repeatedly finding blood in my urine—fearing it   was a symptom of something worse lying underneath. That is life, after all. Fear of something worse. In the … Read More

  here / i am not his image / & i envy it / i shut my eyes against what is left / the crackling softness of life / like communion / desire is a marathon / a baton waiting … Read More

  1.   Like one of those bubble-makers spewing drooling chains from balconies during Mardi Gras parades, I am churning out his cells as we speak. Some of the bubbles detach themselves, float free. To cut myself would be to … Read More

  I try to count the things she can’t   the vine in the mustard yellow bowl left in the water that couldn’t be drained   the tiny grapes I ate the night before her burial   the ash-tipped wick, … Read More

  One fortune teller says someone could walk around with a gun, shooting into the air and the bullets would not strike a living soul. Another says she invited a man with no money to sit and talk and he … Read More

  It was raining when the candles finally came out smelling like dish soap. The restaurant was empty so Damien and I scribbled in our notepads. I’ve worked at so many restaurants now, nothing feels like a rush. Only frustration … Read More

  An Elvis impersonator was invited to give a one-day graduate seminar at NYU. During the talk, the impersonator demonstrated such techniques as the knee drop, the one-arm windmill, and the iconic sneer, which, the impersonator emphasized, was the essence … Read More

  It’s always the three woman I can’t stop looking at—closed circle, hands entwined, pallid faces   absorbed in thought, a small loop of time. As if even amidst nature’s suspicious generosity, the over-laden   orange blossoms, the dark moss … Read More

  At first, infants love us for our colostrum.   A few days later and perhaps for months, our milk.   Eventually, though, children love us for nothing.   My children love me for nothing.   Define nothing: the breadth … Read More

  for Harry and the snows of Kilimanjaro   How airports are cathedrals, each line a pilgrimage. The tilt of an airplane as seen from the last row, its windows open, diving to land. My daughter’s toy butt. A wireless … Read More