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Showing 217-240 of 713 pieces
Poetry
I got moon boots, you got moon boots. We all scream for ice cream but to no avail – our prayers are answered at no better than the rate of chance. There’s no glissando without stops and starts. Nor parallel nor intersecting, one guideline has teeth and one has dreams.
Poetry
realizing it also has a pocket, wondering what a ten month old would keep inside. gazing at the blueberry stain as I vacantly rub a wet Q tip over it, again.
Poetry
We are this and this and this, cinders flaming like lighthouses enveloped by fog, someone tripping in the yard, someone stumbling through the door.
Poetry
I think slowly, with the deliberation I need to follow through sounds, not drop silverware.When I open my mouth, the oh sound doesn’t ah, remains round.
Poetry
The clear blue of the ocean deep swam in. And then out. The salt dissolved the knots in my stomach.
Poetry
ah, here is the robin (Just) here, the wren (Just) the sharp tongue of the irises (Just) the velvet bud (Just) Light and Earth (Just)
Poetry
For finding yourself in collisions You did not choose. You could not avoid. The Flesh around the cleaved frame
Poetry
Holy darvish, Shams-i-perende, Kāmil-i-Tabrīzī — I had not known then that I had been looking for you.
Poetry
Shine a light through my gullet doc and you’ll see intestine walls lined with fishes that I drew as a kid. Fishes, yeah. Plural. Tried to warn them about war, doc. Nobody listened.
Poetry
if the wind caught open scars and distant checkbooks there was no indication it was broke
Poetry
We made love in the kitchen, dinner cooked In the stove, and then burned in the stove. I don’t recall what the third mouth was doing As her first mouth kissed me and the second mouth Talked and inhaled and talked and exhaled.
Poetry
One of three brothers, one of three sons, he tells me, one Sunday his oldest brother choked him unconscious onto the kitchen floor just to see what might happen.
Poetry
Elsewhere. she plays dumb, prefers the old school dumpster meeting in silence. Or the local Pentecostal bad boy and his one-hour evening advice sessions. Or playing dutiful daughter, Or playing tad dumb.
Poetry
A country of broken tiffin-boxes we are- If you come from my village for lunch at my city home let me know beforehand; we shall meet at Curry Road station, both you and I…
Poetry
Both will be stuck with the tab at the end of the night. I’ve been the lawyer, so sure that I can argue down disdain; the doctor, trying to heal the broken at all costs. Nobody wants to drink alone, but everyone does.
Poetry
My second sleep, where red, white and blue are burning, the ashes gleaning and glinting as they die. I wake to the carmine rays of dawn and fall asleep to the sound of fireworks outside. I cradle the ivory dove in its mourning, whispering, “Am I alive? Am I alive?”
Poetry
My mother rationed it like electricity, food enemies had to be beaten, bombs avoided fires put out Love would be shown in a more practical way through duty, service.
Poetry
The bleached armory of the sea Lay ever-washing on the shore In casques and blades and bulwarks. In your hand a gray medallion crumbles To powder And is claimed with haste By the wind
Poetry
Spider plant is the wrong name for my immortal perennial. In all her newness, she remains the same tuberous roots that I touched with tiny fingers, eyes illiterate, but full of love.
Poetry
They’ll be tests, machines that spin famished tubes with eyes like steam engines hanging in space, and no matter how deeply infrared you are, no matter how many mean dogs you put out front
Poetry
the only observer of this war, a woman, she would recall, for years the haunting images of drinking blood from the enemies’ wounds a bestial attack on the body, long dead, of one of the defenders
Poetry
a starless, smothering blanket of beastly odour. Pinned down, your mind sifts and sifts through the shock swiftly, recalling the ranger’s warning: it always goes for your face, cover it with your hands, curve your body into a C, and be still;
Poetry
on the backs of those who bow on the believer and the unbeliever on the protestant and the catholic on the anglican and the jew on the muslim and the hindu
Poetry
My aunt’s house does not exist anymore the little white house with a secret door leading into the garden flooded with soft camellias the yard adorned with a magnolia tree