Category Archives: Poems

New blog! New blog! New blog!

Hello, everyone!

As I posted previously, I have moved to a new blog!! Quite a few new posts have been generated there by this point, and I’d love to know that you’re not missing out!

Please update your bookmarks or subscribe to my new blog, if you’re interested! I hope you’ll continue to follow me there; you’ve been such a great community!

my blog has moved


My blog has moved!! Please follow!!

Hello, all!

Pack your bags!! Update your bookmarks!! My blog has upgraded and moved to a new location. I hope you all will follow; you have been such a supportive community.

Here is a link to the new location: here.

my blog has moved


Midday

 

MIDDAY

 

I am passing through my neighbor’s
backyard, and I stop, because

her patio door is open. The sun
is there, pouring over a table

and chairs, all those rhododendrons
and pollen. In all that light, I can see

up the stairs and into
her living room, where the woman

is sleeping on her couch, bare feet crossed
and dangling off the end. Pink,

chipped toenails. In her sleep, she kisses
her knuckles, individually.

Stars on her hair.
I wonder where she is,

when she is, and who is kissing
her hands—so slowly. The trees here

are quiet, almost courteous. They watch
over my shoulders. She moans

in her sleep. We are all such beautiful soldiers.

 


Progress Report

 

PROGRESS REPORT

 

She will live inside me for three more months. Of this
I am certain: we are running on time. We are

progressing at the recommended rate. But she is still
so small, not even two pounds, and she lies completely

connected. There are days when I want to fill
her room with flowers and others when I want

destruction, and I wonder what she thinks, if she can
hear me. It’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins—

the femur, the head, the slow skin. Sometimes,
I think her heartbeat is mine, that the rumble

of hunger is somehow split in two: the louder
and then the smaller, the echo. An agreement that runs

through me like a tectonic plate: we are hungry, we will sleep.

 


Waiting for a Femoral Head Ostectomy: A Painting

 

WAITING FOR A FEMORAL HEAD OSTECTOMY:
A PAINTING

 

After two days hiding under the bed, my cat
emerges, carrying his back leg as if useless, the toes

on the supporting paw spread wide
for balance. He continues like this, eyes wide

and dilated, a growl that returns most evenings
as the pain sets back in. It flowers, like

the spread paws, back down through the leg
until he can do nothing but carry it,

or lie down. Days and nights. I imagine placing him
in front of a series of mirrors, the strange

pirouette-leg, the left-handed toes spread

too far, to balance, to cry out, the sublimation
of the possible fall. I imagine him reaching up

toward the bar, its slickness, nails running loud
against the painted metal, until he grips

and pulls up, weight only on the sturdy leg, tail high
in assurance, flower in the hip, quieter.

 


World Cup 2014

 

WORLD CUP 2014

                                   thinking of Ashley Capps’ Mistaking the Sea for Green Fields

 

I’m watching the first of the games, and all I can think of
is how true that could be, here—their bodies suspended

over all that green. The white uniforms and the legs bent
like V’s, the swastika bodies, always turning and returning

across a green field and faceless, towering seats. Perhaps
it’s all pointless—the running of a ball back and forth, aiming

in-between two steel poles—but what seems even more so
is their inability to hide. Never do we see their arrival

on that field, or their exit. We only see that constant flux
from offense to defense, that constant-green terrain. They keep

moving, breathing, eating the air, until that final turn, which
sometimes feels further and further away, sometimes suspended,

too, against that green that is a little too green for grass.

 


China Cabinet

 

CHINA CABINET

 

Listen—we are not discussing
private matters. We are discussing how the rain strikes
a teacup, a platter,
a spoon. Left outside, they are
vulnerable, the bare skin, the touch
of water to metal or china—
the tick tick tick—the clicking
of a jaw. It happens: you leave them
out in the open, under all that sky,
and around midnight, you wake. It is raining,
and you remember. The table is placed
somewhere between a fence and the edge
of the woods, open like a mouth.
And the dishes, they are like children,
clustered there. You walk out into
the rain and hear the call
of a night bird. And then another,
answers.

 


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