Courtesy of Chris Buhalis If you’re gone for good—if you’re history –I’ll know to search along rivers.I’ll look for bones, trace foundations,piece old shapes from shards. But time will take those, too.Strangers arriving with children will runthe length of the ruins for hide-and-seek,squeals of living delight.—from “Always Beside a River,” Volume 65, . . .
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@josephbrodsky puts on a snuggly tune,tweets a few words: “December. Like counting spoonsin the sideboard after a guest is gone.”Grins on rereading:this is the perfect tone. Gets up, goes to the window, looks out. It strikeshim that the day, still young, has grown dusky. Likea snowflake that—having lived a second in flight,fragile, . . .
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You were a wooden coat hanger.Your body, half-clothed. No hat could alter your looks.No gentleman’s hat that tipped to highlightYour smile. You were an exquisite gentleman’sCoat hanger, with pale skinny arms growing upward. The wood grain was fading, paler and paler.The winter, too, was half-clothed. No gentleman’s hatCould disguise the looks of . . .
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In some ways I regret how I thought about marriage on the day of my wedding, December 7, 2013. At the time, my partner and I believed that God had led us to one another, that divorce could only be a tragic last resort, and that it was my husband’s role as . . .
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On November 1, 2012—over ten years ago now—I awake to the sound of a generator . . . in another, wealthier building. It is Day Four of the blackout. I cover my nose from the chill in my unheated and lightless apartment. My husband, already awake, wraps his arms around me and . . .
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I’m home from work, reading in bed, when Mom calls to tell me. It’s six in the evening. My boyfriend’s out with some friends of his I find exhausting. He’s often out, while I stay in. We’ve been together for almost a decade, our rituals of avoidance calcified into habit. I live . . .
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1. CHLORIS HAS HER SAY “If it’s true, Chloris, that you love me,and I’ve heard you do love me well—”was a fresh way for you to begin.After that you lost the thread a bit,scorning ambrosia and the prospectof trading places with kings if my lovewere sure. (No kings were offering.)—from “Anti-Pastorals,” Volume . . .
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Before we brush our teeth and get dressed, beforeI take two kinds of blood pressure pills and threefiber gummies, put coffee in one kind of go-cup,kale smoothie in another, get into the car, I say I wantto have one more cup of coffee in bed and read youthis Ellen Bass poem, but it’s . . .
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At dawn, when I have to pee and there is that dread of standing, and afterI pee and drink a small jam jar of water, you’re the first thing I put in my hand, Pill. In my palm you’re so perfect and white and round, and then I addanother one of you, . . .
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We knew what we would lose before we had it, but I know why I stayed.When I close my eyes, I can still seeour kitchen skin and half a lemon left there,turning in on itself like the fistsour mothers made in every cardinal direction,and how late it was in the afternoon.You were rinsing . . .
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