FOR A WOMAN WHOSE NAME I DO NOT KNOW
In the photo the woman looks out.
Someone is taking her photograph:
Her face is white, a dark face covered in the white
of plaster as it falls.
You cannot do this
in a poem. You cannot take someone else’s suffering.
What poetry of
witness? Is there a child still living? Does the lover
remain inside the ruins of the house? And her mother,
where is she? Mother,
where are your arms?
In the photograph
the woman’s eyes scream. Can she be
her own witness? The whole building fallen down
on her torso. Her waist, her legs, her sex
And her chest and arms, her face
Someone is watching
in the dark, covered by light,
covered by the idea of light,
Be the eyes. Be the weight
of what happens. Be the place
you cannot say.
–published in http://www.heartjournalonline.com/
Map published in Cura Magazine
In the Wantu language, which was spoken in North California for thousands of years, there is no word for the right or left side of the body.
The Tree Outside Published in Midway Journal
How can you know you’ve survived? The hands still move, the feet, the heart though the mouth is frozen shut. I am taking the groceries out from the bag. I am putting the dishes Into the sink.
Women published on Flying Object
The girl with the open face, she is feeding her brother from her bowl of soup.
Weightlessness published in Conjunctions
In the box there was no beginning and no end, but an openness stopped on all sides by the edges. We built it with wood and painted it. And all along there was the future.
Story published in RealPoetik
I don’t know what made me do it. It was like getting up late at night and going out to find the moon, hung full, at the end of the block. Framed, between the low row of houses.
(Pregnancy) published in APR and Verse Daily
I will not be scared, I said,
take of me, take of me—begin:
And like a tree. And like a tree
“Love Poem” published in slate
A lake flickers after snow,
and I enter the refraction,
like playing the piano–
fingers moving under hand
Les Livres published in Boston Review
Having read them all or not,
we soon conclude everything’s a front
covering up centuries of inexperience:
the leaves outside don’t care
about last year’s foliage,
What Is Left published in Agni
The nineteenth of May, year one thousand five hundred thirty-six,
where there, in the particular, the clouds lie low
as a cloying ambergris throng at the horizon
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