Excerpts
Lullaby (with Exit Sign)
I slept with all four hooves in the air or I slept like a snail in my broken shell. The periphery of the world was gone. The giant exit sign blinking above my head. My family sings its death march. They are the size of the moon. No, they are the size of thumbtacks punched …
The Bear’s House
The town of Blackwell changed its name in 1786. It had been called Bearsville when first founded, but that name did not encourage new settlers. There were nearly as many black bears in the woods as there were pine trees, but there were also more eel in the river than anyone would have thought possible. …
Well, Millstone, Cistern, Cliff (1892)
for Paul Cezanne The cistern has run dry. Now the stone well, shaped rock and unshaped, collects sound, and what is beyond sound, the crackle of wrinkled stems curling to flame. Watercolor scratched, scraped to bare stock—trees, saplings, twigs. Roots and brush, windfall limbs and fallen trunks. Broken, unbroken ground. A tent of shavings, tinder, …
Making It Back
I left when a rose flush on the snow started the whole thing again and didn’t turn back till, moonlit, I was walking through a sub-zero night, the world’s frequencies low as I stopped to listen, then followed some moon- deepened marks like Braille going in and through me but I was lost, soon reduced …
Luna
Unlike you, Khaled, I was told to look at the moon, know her hard, decipher her changing countenance so I could learn to know myself, but disobeyed that injunction too, worshipped instead her lesser twin. My native tongue has only one word for both moon and month, one luna that begins in a sliver of …
Something to Marvel At
As Beverly and I walked down the sodden creekside trail, sounds of traffic from Interstate 84 behind us became the sound of Latourell Falls ahead of us. The transition was complete when the creek bent east, opening to a sudden view of the falls. We stopped to watch its 250-foot plunge down the north side …
The Snow of Petals on the Fallen World: Some Second Thoughts on Capra
And yet, at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, After the clement snows have come again, And the American miracle of money, The petals still remain fallen from the rose. What’s been restored is the life once fled from, And while George Bailey’s met his angel, He’s also felt the black wind that lives …
Student Conference
At first, I mistook the small, black tattoo for a phone number or a date jotted in haste on her wrist’s paler underside— then suspected stitches when it didn’t fade. I was not far wrong. (Her poems: careful, deliberate, thin as she was, haunted by a mother years dead—not a word about the brief grief …
The Telephone of the Dead
Marnie Gottfried’s husband, Steve, had been dead for two weeks when he called her for the first time. She had just returned from Israel, hadn’t even unpacked, was as unhinged and raw as she would ever be, and the telephone call sent her windmilling to a therapist. When she mentioned the telephone call to the …