Everything softened, edgeless, peacefully geometric:the fence posts wearing elbows of white, the pool cover snow-smothered, the bird feeder topped with a delicate hat,no birds attempting a December refueling.The truth—it was always the squirrels who ate best, plumping themselves on what they stole. I’ve seen them hurtle their tight little bodiesfrom my shingles, latching to the …
It was across the street, at the bottom of the hill our own house crowned, so she got all our rain whenever it rained. All the neighborhood’s rain, it seemed. It ran down the eaves, down the driveways, down the old pebble road in dozens of little gray rivers, along the cracks and plow scars, …
I. 1966 In time I can move backward, just as I can move forward, and the past, ever-present, lingers on. The supposition is that I will continue to listen to the swishing songs of a field of sorghumand pretend they are prayers. But for a handful of people tucked away in the obscure fringes,the peasants, …
What burnsand flowers, he moves toward. His hand across skies, hovers above thorned roses, darting bees. So much insidepounding to break out. On the porch, leaves take off, tomatoes ask for water, he asks me for nothing. Careful, Brendan. He bends to petals, reaches into stamens, stands stillamong the flit of wings, his face against …
The green shatter, a new flame growing from this crater * as skiesburned. You arrived, we were *made, forged and braided. Always bound by *the flare: our hole torn in space, scorched petals tipped * silver. Kneelingclose, we cup our hands, pour rain on *smoke, scatter your crystal— and the earth lights us.
“You ready?” the phlebotomist asks, holding out two vials. I nod and joke, “Sure, I’ve got enough.” He laughs. This is his kind of humor, “Of course you do—twelve gallons’ worth inside. And as soon as I draw this blood,” he tightens the elastic tourniquet around my upper arm, “your brain sends a signal to …
What if no one besides my motherwants to be my mother—I don’t resent her for answeringthat she would not do it over.We were standing by the electric stove,over fried rice or spaghetti pancakes.Some things did not come easilybetween us. Not touch, no longerthe grip of her skirt tight in my fistclimbing the stairs into darknessafter …
My long poem barked like a dogWore an orange madras headdressRefused to change the light bulb. My long poemWould not weep. Lilies begone, sweep your wiltedBirthday selves like balloons dragging the lakeFor a child. Sweep your pitiful blue angelsBack into their chimney.The foundation has soot like satin. My unfooting Begins thus. Scars begin movingOf their …
To fully experience this visual poem in its original form, enlarge the image below the text. Text: Girl names soften the tongue, a delicate unfolding, Ghalam, painted with a pen, Lucine, moon.The boy names, Kevork, Sevag, fire from throat, guttural consonants.On the first page, my grandfather’s name, Arakel, to send forth.At seven, he hunger-marched the …
Listen to GC Waldrep read the poem: Haruspexy at field’s edge.The unwritten soulstitches it into the fringeof its garment,I mean the image of it.We are told nothing, really.It’s a worldsweeping the bridefrom the hospital tiles.A snowstorm’s on its way.The field, vs.the known planets& the hospitals they succor.At the marginsof the statutory seasonof ancestral suffering,a gun …