Words

The Lesson
A certain bird used to make the wrong sound.
Her keeper cried, Go lower, lower—your pitch
feels uncontained. The bird pressed her beak
to the keeper’s cheek, puncturing his flesh
until a spot no bigger than an ant’s abdomen,
no bigger than the period concluding his command,
appeared. The keeper mistook the act for kindness
and crooned, My love, my infant—try again.

First appeared in Sycamore Review

Beautiful
The young blonde in a sundress
carrying her Yorkshire terrier

inside her purse
is my grandmother sixty years ago.

Who now waits
for her aspic in a magenta sweater.

Who is strapped
to a wheelchair. (All flesh

withered to bone.) I was beautiful
she croaks under a beaming chandelier

then creaks towards me—oh
my you are beautiful.

First appeared in Sojourn Journal

Long Drawing From Horse Memory
When wind failed to budge the succulents
and light

poured between the ridges
of my wooden frame, I washed my hands

of horses. How I wanted one!
Terrible desire, prying through the aloe

like an angry aunt, her skin reeking
witch hazel, hair

impossibly long. (And what of the mane’s
headdress? What of the lashes?)

The only image left shows Dusty—
her spotted head bowed to my boots

with promise, somewhere
in the south of France

where the wind moved things,
and movement came so easily.

So much easier, that swift ride
across the valley. The swift valley

pushing into vision
and the guide, not far ahead, on Foxy,

her barrel
couched between his leather legs.

First appeared in Mississippi Review

So Much Went Into
Cream sheets draped bodily.

Eye-slits to see
and hand-holes for hands

to lift corners— not too carefully—
punctured the texture.

She could not tell
his hand from her hunt:
a bull? The thing had horns
and should not have been carried
too caringly—

Doggedly, the first son.
Gold streaks defined his shadow.
Pale darkness followed.

Two ribs split
Indian red. Came Adam.

First appeared in Bellingham Review

Love Poem
Gold will come, someone said,
unless you pave your road
anxiously.

You know what I mean by gold.

I am letting myself tilt under the cherry blossoms,
facing you, not them. Facing you
with them around us.

When we lay under the cherry blossoms,
facing each other,
I almost forgot about the cherry blossoms.

I envy that Japanese performer with the fan—
Everyone’s watching her for delight.
Nobody questions what she will mean tomorrow.

Where are all these soy sauce lunches coming from?

Here are two ways of touching.
I am here, scientific
and ready. For anything.

Even the trees are on fire.
Even the fire.
First appeared in Lumina