Poetry
March
What I recall from night is tangled in the uneasy rising of a new day. No need to fiddle in my sleep
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Poetry
Showing 217-240 of 681 pieces
Poetry
Sometimes, in the mirror
I say it again and again and again until my fingers turn red against the sink. Because I can’t remember my body the last time it was mine.
Poetry
We’re Born as Frost
What a miracle, We’re taught The barbed wire fences, Are to be finally taken off Mottos of life, history of people Worthy Stories, worthy Men Women, are to be taken care of We’re taught The summer precedes autumn Autumn precedes winters
Poetry
Glimpses of You
In my dream, you ride your bike up the road and I wave goodbye. It’s okay. Everything is okay. I can let go now. But in my dream—now my nightmare—you never come back.
Poetry
Street Cleaning
Each sweep of his diligence hails you though & now you’d bet he’s underpaid & the sun’s enlightened all things & you’re the street, slowly redeemed of debris.
Poetry
My Mother’s Kitchen
Mom’s yelling about my sister’s cigarettes, boyfriends and beer again. My mom Smokes Kools and always has a can of Blatz nearby.
Poetry
3 poems by Xueyan
You empty my cup By filling Hers
Poetry
Caesar’s Ghosts
No wonder, you who know history, read portents, now sleep uneasily, blades wrapped in raw leather tucked beneath your pillows. Morning lines at the whetstone, coffee and small chatter, conspiratorial whispers, a dime’s blot of oil, grinding steel on stone—
Poetry
The Misunderstood
“Say sorry Mita, ju leetle sinverguenza, pendeja for estupidez! Her sharp words slice through the pineapples on the tropical wallpaper of her tiny dark kitchen scattering drops of sweet juice on my cheek and on one eyelash that dangles in front of my pupil too afraid to fall off
Poetry
35 More Dawns of Winter Someone Said
But this is poem and not hopeful consonance so I write ephemeral which is fleeting and ethereal which is artificial construct of the human brain
Poetry
Cambodia Lessons
there is life happening across this world, around it, inside it at the instant tea touches your lips in the morning; you: not alone in your husk, it is happening, right now, you, me, separated by our skins
Poetry
One Night Stand
He takes me to a bed where there is no rest I rattle with him His moans overpower the sirens of the street and shakes his body in a variety of motions
Poetry
Isle of Caves
Wall after wall, cave after cave, many armed, many legged, many headed desire dances its heart out. Liberated by the im- measurable devotion of anonymous hands.
Poetry
in memory of things that break
the love you feel when a baby is first born the night he left for college (the morning he returned but only because he forgot his hat)
Poetry
Unconfession in My Psychoanalyst’s Office
I tremble in a flower’s vocabulary— retract my hands like from a hot sky or suddenness dreams which pass through my body are no different from hands
Poetry
Driving the Skyway Bridge
You don’t see her, hair like wings ephemeral catching fire from Florida sun, wire fences no match for birds taking flight unnaturally.
Poetry
All the Howling
The night locked and cellular, the landscape grows increasingly perplexed at the Color aspects of American democracy,
Poetry
Rich People
There are plenty of seats on the summit. You can see the dark clouds amassing from miles away. I had a big wedding. I’ve stood beneath a waterfall.
Poetry
Stepping into the Dark
I imagined her soul, slipping into muted sleep, slowing its swirl, dimming its spectrum of colors – until like a photo, darkening to monochrome, she would become the very depth and quiet of her own shadow. Fire slowly dims, coal blackens, into night.
Poetry
Ode to Beets
Prisoners could enroll in college courses and some even taught. The people of Alabama often formed remarkable friendships with the prisoners and gave them many gifts, as well as invitations to their homes for a meal. After the war, many Germans brought their families to vacation in the South and to introduce them to their southern friends. These friendships lasted for decades.
Poetry
Waiting
The thing about a lake is the crazy men who fish there, in the copper- hearted flow where cold springs and greasy seaweed gather. Shimmer. Buckle. Fish bodies writhe beneath, more life always where one can’t reach. More life always where watching is not allowed.
Poetry
2 poems by Jane Marston
They were not deer, such as the men had known in Virginia or Vermont, but antelope whose haunches flashed when the heave of portage brought the men too near. The men believed they were something they needed to kill, not just for food or for the pleasure of pursuit, but from a need to supplement,
Poetry
Sooner Now
And so, it seems it only takes one summer without rain, a drift of weeks, the world gone mean, to make a start then, offer age assent. To give surprised consent, or to at least – time bossy, brooking no dissent – begin to know there is a change now on its way. Not today. Not right away.
Poetry
Loss of Little Things
I dream each night our house is burning, and I watch and watch. It consumes, I am consumed, by the pit in my gut, burning rubble. Spiders watch from the corners, with their wide shining eyes, but do not spin a line to save me-