Poems
It’s our runaway imaginings that seduce us / away from the meanwhiler pleasures: / even as we cross each i, dot every t, / we calibrate our fantasies like rare treasures, / false memory-to-be ...
... (read more)Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, the rain blew you / into the backseat, steaming and boisterous, my quiet son / and you his not-friend-Dad-we-only-share-some-classes, / or late evenings, sunset dampening down the final lap ...
... (read more)This time around / they say, we won’t / be at loggerheads, // we’ve understood / you can’t measure up, / we’ll do maths & spelling
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a poem is a house into which / words are inserted // permeable, vapour or rain / altering the light outside ...
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When Ishmael escaped from the closed Bible / on the dresser with family names that were // only tangentially yours, you looked to the emergency / site for inclemency and found fire was rapidly ...
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When I scooped fists of never-garden dirt into the song-hole, / I never felt more able. // When these wrists start to ache without pause from the carrying, / why, I will wrap them in a bandage.
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Dusk when the people in the trees / stand out against the dark – // but it isn’t dark, only a deep gradation / of the light –
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We can walk into a room not knowing. / It doesn’t happen every time. // A white room can be painted to be pure. / I mean, just to show us that it’s clean.
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Dear god-herd, golden god-horde, Lord / Protectors of the meek and green-fed: / when we came in from the cold / ten thousand winters back, the terms ...
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When I read there were 170 women / seized from brothels in the Gardenia / district, loaded into police wagons / and crammed into the hull of a ship, / I wonder if they held hands. Or prayed.
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