Section
Showing 145-168 of 681 pieces
Poetry
An asylum in a mad city, Bedlam begins in a town ditch with eleven chain, six locks, four manacles, and two stocks, to guard (or guard against) the menti capti, whose minds lay tangled in a landscaped brain. Mary’s blue robe the only sky for inmates;
Poetry
creatures caught in the heat of mating/ body parts of personal history/ memory’s tenuous grip/ sudden dip
Poetry
How it just happens that we all have someone to make a blue tarpaulin memory with. Even if you find them many years later and many miles away, There is a spot on this Bombay Chowpatty Where the sea is so close to you.
Poetry
But I like my own bed best, she says, and the quiet in mornings, when I scatter seed for the birds, the quiet in evenings, not at all. That’s when you should call.
Poetry
Do they make the cut, or are they too inconvenient? What about rain? and never will, dismembering or in many different lights, Something huge and without music has just happened.
Poetry
Jars of stunted-self languish there still, in the half light. Stacked fat slices of summer pear. Peeled, cleft and without mouths, they kiss up against the glass.
Poetry
And my father angry at traffic, always. Still they are driving on the screen past midnight. Sometimes we would arrive in the dark, my grandmother in the kitchen waiting.
Poetry
Death is eternal truth, but death is also resurrection. Death is as old as the sea and as new as the monsoon that births new life.
Poetry
The train crosses a bridge. I toss a coin through the window and see it twirling with silvery flashes of light toward the river below.
Poetry
Inside desire goes to seed—sweet fleshy folds that dawn fruit—fecund, pink, and dew that glistens, granatis—a rose nests in a lotus—
Poetry
The fish hook lodged in my brain probes its freakish proximity with the harpoon throbbing behind my sternum. Raspberry
Poetry
I mean this to say: my sons will not put their hands on people who have not asked for their hands—like in a community pool when a girl is fourteen and had not seen this boy since 6th grade;
Poetry
Bred in the wild wild tropicanas outcropper from fecund alleys of hortigunculturists Hit the road jackfruit and don’t call me pumpkin he says spitting nectar on the Konkan
Poetry
This was in the late morning, Sun. You threw down the heat there too. We took the cloud of blackbirds as a sign and got moving, but Colleen didn’t like the quiet.
Poetry
What’s this book about? she always asks, and I read her my favorite part with the fig tree, the fruit
Poetry
I finally relented and placed one on a tea towel next to my pillow. It made a startled little snore.
Poetry
Scry-skapers horporate saidquarters mirrored mansions grancy feed-towers daring town the latural nandscape
Poetry
I slipped a dream or two between pages 102 and 103 of the handsome volume of poems on my bedside table. Like you would a leaf. The one collected from the pile under the Oak’s shadow.
Poetry
I’m on the sidewalk opposite Verdi Square kissing a married woman passionately and thinking oh my god you fool what are you doing because
Poetry
Everything here is the same—the same faded streetlights and the same fast food and the same homeless people lining the space between buildings.
Poetry
The cold rain at 2 a.m. beats against America, and by then you had already left. A ghost, two clowns will dance on the ceiling until the sky turns grey-white.
Poetry
A wizard, on the other hand, could cast spells with their wands. Radu had two Magic Wands instead of one. To double the power. Radu and the wands were inseparable.
Poetry
The body itself is the wound, deep and deserving, skin/hair/breath all edges of the scab. Muscle tension/eye strain, pain beneath the teeth, gentle reminders of the harbor itself.
Poetry
Fade Into You melts down lumbar curvature. Gish, she sings her lullaby. No fissures form in the foundation, no 737 jet stream goodnight.