“My therapist says I’m afraid of vanishing.Last week his ceiling caved in, ending our sessionin a shower of words and water.I’m serious. I’m always seriouswhen I talk about therapists and cave-ins.”–from “Flourishing” which appears in the Spring 2017 issue (Volume 58, Issue 1) Tell us about one of the first pieces you’ve . . .
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“into it were pouredthe years that followedi’ll give you sugar for a good startas if you were a horse spursif earned. we still say that? treasurethe future, bedecked. we letit, i say to you: let it stick there!”–from “paper cone” which appears in the Spring 2017 issue (Volume 58, Issue 1) Tell . . .
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“I wish I knew the answer to the questionthe gutted, flipped-over caron Mulholland Drive is asking, or why the soundof fingers snappingfills my mouth with peanuts,the way I fill my mouth with peanuts at baseball gamesat county fairs and long shiftsat the pharmacy, when night hangsover the windowslike the kind of silk . . .
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“Coyote clings to the side of a boulder twice as a wide as his splayed body. He thinks he heard something down the slope, a small rock-slide or stick breaking. His fingers hold, but his boots scratch for leverage. Not that big a deal if you fell, though he doesn’t want to . . .
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“This is how we grew afraid.The moon wore its bright hat. The sun was a great wheelof fire. Children played jump rope in the crowded street, and everywherewas the autobiograpical,” –from “Blur” which appears in the Spring 2017 issue (Volume 58, Issue 1) Tell us about one of the first pieces you’ve . . .
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“The foam line of the lake breaks into ice.I can feel the weight of a flood, the granite of you sealing together. Still, the lake water is all quiet, no smellof rain. No sense of struggle or lungs folding…” –from “Auroras” which appears in the Spring 2017 issue (Volume 58, Issue 1) . . .
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“Barren field, tin sky, coudsthe color of clouds. Why describe thingswhen things describe themselves? Besides, there’s nowhere to turnwhen your shield against despairbecomes its source,” –from “Igloo” which appears in the Spring 2017 issue (Volume 58, Issue 1) Tell us about one of the first pieces you’ve writtenI don’t remember the first . . .
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“On a Chilly January morning in 1893, Louise Imogen Guieny took the train from Auburndale to Boston and made her way with the brisk, long-legged steps of a practiced walker to 246 Boylston Street. When the poet entered the warmth of Perkins Hall, her gold-rimmed spectacles must have immediately fogged over. Yet . . .
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”BEITHE WAS A LOUD CITY. It had the loudness of a city not yet used to itself. Steel clicked against steel and stone echoed stone. There was no respite from its noise. On a bend in the road in the center of Beithe, there stood a house. It was known to all . . .
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“When I was eight years old, my mom invented a game called “getting lost.” She was worried, she later told me, that I was starting to feel less loved. At four and a half I’d drawn a chalk mural to welcome my new triplet siblings, but Mom feared that I’d grown to . . .
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