Monthly Archives: August 2011
About a poem To read a poem is to know nothing. Even when I search obscure references online, my ignorance appalls and punctures bloated air sacs of mind, shushing Nor’easters to zephyrs. I would spend the rest of my days in the … Continue reading
Translation At bedtime, when my grandson was three and fluent in French, flawless words came with delicious inflection, that, to my inexpert ear, conveyed nothing but insistence. He would repeat and repeat, head tilted towards my bafflement, forlorn, then frustrated … Continue reading
Catastrophe with glass What a thrill—my thumb instead of an onion. –Sylvia Plath First, I drop the mustard jar, glass and baby-shit-colored goo all over the floor and I warily sluice this mess, gather, mop, sweep— a roll of paper … Continue reading
To self Come home now, it’s safe. I’ve posted signs at all four corners of the property: No Molesters. Not to say you’ve recovered memories of mishandling (at six, at seven) but still. Besides, all is forgiven, so what, you … Continue reading
This poem will appear in an upcoming online journal. Link to follow.
Pedestrians in the City Watch as people stride down crowded sidewalks. They don’t always manage to avoid collisions. Two travelers with veering-left tendencies approach from opposite directions. If they make eye contact, then, most of the time, each wanders back … Continue reading