Self-knowledge is the subject of the poetry of __________. But it’s definitely TMI self-knowledge. It’s the type of stuff that makes a seasoned psychologist whither into fantasies of a tropical retirement while saying, “Tell me more.” I mean, it’s gross. …
It is the way the clouds drift, pregnant with
rain and how am I supposed to suspend the
poetry to attend to the prose? That I do not
know. What I know—my midnight coffee lets
the vapour rise a shade …
Two years after she died, I found my grandmother living
in the walls of my body, sleeping by day, waking by night—
we’re so good at being good; it’s hard to tell how bad we are
at being women. When …
For years we knew only their narrow necks,
upright sleepers perched against our benzine sea,
a carbonized wilderness of steel in a climb
above a dockside sweaty with grease,
the grain terminal, the timber terminal,
stacks of bulk cargo, salt …
When I was sixteen I was strapped to a motel
chair backwards. My eyes folded open like mail.
In the parking lot, a hummingbird dragged her new antlers
And the police finished arresting all of my friends.
I learned to …
For hard-hearted men, a chance to
touch our own faces and to return.
For the shadow in the porcelain sink,
the emblem of our toil.
For youth, everything.
For the past, that time sleeping
under the bridge, or that
I am no small giver to small charities.
In spite of “A mind is a terrible thing to waste”
on this ornate letter
with its flowery “thank you” for something
someone has imagined I’ve done or am about to do,…
We were bored. This was the Upper Peninsula
of Michigan, where nobody is from, especially
not anyone you’d consider a saint. So goddamn
far from Bethsaida, Tarsus, or even St. Paul, MN.
We ate snow for supper, walked backwards so…
I also lure my son to sleep
by offering him candies,
by pretending to embrace the unsure
safety that comes with the voice of the
broadcaster on the radio, on the TV set.
I also stroke his hand and kiss …
We sink into the night,
we stroke it with our eyes:
its echoes barking on.
The night throbs in all the senses,
we taste jellyfish-insect-fruit:
the slight presence of our dream
perfect reverberation in this oceanic broth.
Carefully we breathe,…