that holds desire in—taut like ripstopover ribs arched back in pleasure—whipof whether—lash of self-restraintIn dream I pin you down between breast-bone and hard ground—granite spineof mountain, room blue with air—pleuralspace of atmosphere which I longto puncture exhale exhaustingly—unlesssex is sleeplessness in full sun under mosquito-spattered tarpaulin—tornbetween a gut-punch oflust & reason I tell myself not …
I took the ditch path back the empty lot across the graveled patch of scutch grass, musk thistle, the fox squirrel .22ed and rotting, coyote scat pebbled with undigested pustules of huckleberries. Pollen-scattered air. Busted beer bottles, lottery scratch- off tickets, chicken bones— alone, I followed my ear: thought of you then got over it. …
At home working on a client’s website—an archive of Yiddish memories—I look up in time to see a yellow poplar topple. Yesterday was Holocaust Remembrance Day.The hummingbirds have arrived like they do every April, flitting toward the lower branch of a weeping willowto the only one of five feeders that remains. Year after year, even …
I turn clay soil, mound rocks, squeeze grubs with my fingers. My spade, the soil, a rasp. A dry northeast heat wave.When I was five, Mamá chopped my hair. Wild girl, alwaysin a tangle. Holes in your jeans, grass stains on your sweaters. Through my hair, wind, dust, twigs.Impatient bumblebees,you know we’ll have flowers. I …
A space on a page that’s waiting for something else is where Pain Itself isput, the Lorem Ipsum,Latin borrowed from long- suffering Cicero’sThe Purposes of Good and Evil as far back as the Dark Ages soas to frighten the white panic of empty backto nimble lines of good and passing order. Nor again, Cicero wrote,is …
I Your good-bye is a warning:watch the horizon or you’ll miss my return. It’s a worm in the belly of a kelp-tangled gull, sea lions sparking from rocks, houndssent to hunt you down& bring me home; it’s white sailsswelling, my breasts in your palms. I wake to an empty shore. II By summer’s end, all …
translated by dan beachy-quick XLIV The stranger had a wound he couldn’t see—you knew him by his breast’s troubled breath. When he drankhis third cup he knew himself again: those roses he wore as a crown shed all their petals on the ground.Someone scorched him badly. I swear, gods, the image I sing dances true: …
translated by dan beachy-quick Fragment 89 They are sleeping, mountain-heads, headlands, and the gullies too—the fallen leaves and the tribe of slow-footed creatures the dark earth grows—beasts of prey mountain-bred and brood of wild bees and the brutemonsters deep in the deep purple seas:and that flock of omen-giving birds long-winged, they are sleeping too.
Every six minutes another word is dropped from the lexicon. Who says there’s no use anymore for woolfell, the skin of a sheep still attached to the fleece?And when did we stop calling tomatoes love apples? I need somewhere in the world for there still to bea fishwife who understands the economy of flesh grown …
I think about the word: TENDER And its meaningsHe told me I was so tender. Tender meaning easily to bruise? Meaning soft to the touch?Meaning perfection to taste? Meaning juicy,Or close to bloody. Tender . . .Did he mean tinder?Like when I saw him on TinderLike when I saw someone who might’ve been posing as …