Poetry

Naming is an act of caring—Martha, Toughie,Celia the Pyrenean ibex who died twice.I take 齐 for myself. To what end?Terminarchs have no say. Why don’t you want children?Because because becausebecause Sudan died lonely in his rarityand I turned twenty-eight. Becauseto be rare is to be alone. A family’s branch can start or end anywhere.I turn …

When I was a child,my fire burned black after dark.What is not seencan never be put out. I never asked,What about me? I would ponder the smallness of sparrows,too many of which I found dead or dying in the pond—floating on its algae-mirror like rufous pads of lily—their gray bibs hanging open, darkening in water,their …

I didn’t play footballfor the coach.I played soccerthough my fathercoached football.He was a linebackerin high school.He inspired fearin straight dudes.I stood up straightwhen he entered a room,and many times under his gazeI wanted to die.When I was a young manin high school,I wanted to find my soul.My father the coachhad a straight shadow.I was a …

(To use the PDF embedder to see all pages of the poem, use the arrows on the bottom left-hand side.) Text: Can I please be added to this group? I’m looking to relocate Ten Bristlebirds. I’d like a disorienting trip through dark wonder. Because of the orcas / because of the snowmelt / the gnawing …

Now I’m a person who can spot a nuthatch, point to grosbeaks, have taughtmyself the clowning chip of juncos at the window. Know a raven from a crowand adore both. I owe that love to Arkansas. To think I never gawkedat life with wings before, had taken flocks for granted, and even thoughtthat birds were …

Sonnet with Church and Osso Buco The mystery of the Song of Songs: the priests’rationalizations of how the Roseof Sharon is the Church, the bride of Christ,or Israel, or a barbecue jointin Tennessee. Does He feedeth amongthe lilies sound like that to you? Get real.Solomon wants to be the Shulamite,the Rose of Sharon, the Fuchsia …

Who is your ideal reader? a lit mag asked,and after careful thought, I decidedit’s Daniel Craig, circa 2006,deliberately emerging from the seain his little blue shorts, flinging waterfrom his hair, swaggering through the wavesand onto the beach, white sand clingingto his bare feet and somehow muscular ankles,striding to the chaise longue beside mine,and opening a …

before there was manthere was mother and the sweetinfinince of her chorus mother of heaven, mother of earth, mother of mothers and other gods. mother of motherlands, broken waters, mountain peaks, and fertile valleys. mother of wind, mother of music, mother of sorrow and song. mother of echoes, mother of echoes, of echoes, echoes. mother …

Having nottouched myselfin some timeowing tothe erosionof incrementalsadnessesthat can detacha personfrom their bodyas cleanlyas a cliffis sheared froma coastline,the doctorinforms methat lovingmyselfis now myjob. So I take upmy own twofingers andwork them withthe seriousnessof earned saltand an imaginarysalaryinto the littoralcavern ofmy pussy. Andlike a wavethat sweeps theunsuspectingfrom the rockybreakwater,quite suddenlyeveryonewho has everfucked me isfucking meagain—mywife’s …

My mother tells me my grandmother has begun to touch herself. Dress up, hands between her legs, furious & buckling, & I wonder: how long has it been since she’s been touched by anyone? Decades, I presume. Does there come a point in life where you stop craving pleasure or do you learn to no …