1. /
  2. Poems

Poems

Outpatient Clinic

Tissues, the box an arm’s length away
from the woman who talks about
her daughter, my client,

her many relapses, how she did well
for a time. I nod. Somewhere, a blast
of car horns. Outside my door,

Read More »

He Said They Move Too Slowly

The ER doc said the trains here
Go too slow
For anybody to kill themselves
By stepping out
In front of one
As if they were sleepy little engines
Without much power
That drifted ghost-like through town
Quietly at night

Read More »

Our Hands

Braid a child’s hair in precise beaded rows

And shave a scalp just enough to access
Skin flap, skull, brain, tumor

Fold over a learner’s fingers to guide a needle
This angle here with this much pressure
Slide together into a hidden space

Read More »

When they ask how he died I tell them

he found the gate unlatched,

                                                                               crossed the downy path

 

                                                    into the volant field,

 

Read More »

Toxemia of Pregnancy

There was the bed bent in half,
the needle in the wrist,

the crack of bathroom light under the door.
Your father tried to sleep in the hospital cot

Read More »

Healing

When I thought I might die,
not eventually, but very
soon, I treated me more kindly,

Read More »

Good Enough

Three weeks after my mastectomy, I traveled south.
I slung my carry-on bag crosswise over my body
and jostled my way through the airport, the bag
in front of me, to form a barrier, protecting my incision.
I let my arm rest on the bag,

Read More »

In the Regression of Aging Bodies

There are buttons he can’t slip in notches
And zippers he forgets to zip
There are broccoli stalks that need slicing
And urine stains scoured from floors
There are socks that need feet
And shoes that need their socks

Read More »

Recurrence

What was it my father said to me
when I forgot to latch the gate
and we spent the night in the woods
searching for eyes among shadows
of tree trunks cast by flashlight?

Read More »

Dying Is Ugly

Bang my shins, my temple on the gritty wall
Of Charlie’s deathbed
Where we do not wrest the truth
But beg him Let us change the (piss-stenched) sheets.
He will not go for tests, insists, denial overarching

Read More »
Scroll to Top