Category: Poetry

My husband Amir tells me, “better to have a tall man,” as he gets riz from the cupboard’s top shelf. His Kalashnikov’s under the sink. Bombs rattle the pots and pans. He rips open the ten-kilo sack. Who will cook for him tomorrow? Me, in his arms. dirt and motor oil stain his shirt. “How’d…

but not in a sexy way / not in the way we used to / by which I mean the way / we might have / I remember us / only in the moments we touched / the concert at The Warhol / you stood close to me / as if it were crowded /…

When I was ten, I was walking in the woods and came upon a spiderweb the size of a door and at the center of the tangling sheet of spirals, this funneled orbs of silk, was a spider, a Goliath birdeater-slash-huntsman hybrid with its thick tarantula spiked legs.  I reached out for it, this strange…

Is nothing more than a warning Age 6 face smothered into the neighbor’s cat He shrieks and claws until I shriek higher Thin line of sticky red Dripping From my elbow, first scar Reminding me: Be careful, gentle, soft When blood Is nothing more than a tangible form of grief Age 16 the boy standing…

In the darkness of our bedroom, he rolls to face me his hand coming to my hip bone and asks What’s one of your favorite words? Epitome. You? Forlorn.  The way the first “o” feels against your lips. What’s your favorite punctuation?  I consider the warmth of his fingers, the coolness of the wedding band…

~for Diane Pridgeon   In Traverse City they have gutted the asylum. There are traces everywhere. In its repurposed rooms and new restaurants and artisanal shops. Hand in hand, my girlfriend and I eat gelato and step across the grounds. We know the patients here were treated with marigolds, their scent having long ago driven…

I found it in the glove compartment nestled in its own yearning, something worse than lust, something I, myself, might have written. That I am writing to you now: I was always afraid of you. Your angry grieving. Your stomping of the house. And night-moaning. And frightening the dog. I was always afraid of ruin.…

It’s not ok to ask my dad questions One of his teeth fell out and I try to see what’s behind it He opens his mouth to swear and a shot of whiskey falls out and spills onto my knee but I’m driving and it keeps me alert He replaces his tooth with a cigarette…

My father loses touch with the world we can see after he cleans out the last drawer. After worker comps comes in and the last bill goes out paid. After he has written down every login and the first four characters of passwords. After the trees are pruned, the rosemary and cilantro clipped back. The…