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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In another life, I join the hierophantsof New Jersey, drink petrochemical windsswirling across Route One, a new Delphi,speak their ethylene mysteries. Called back by my inexorable childhood, it becomesimpossible to ignore my sons’ own strangegifts: smokestacks stop smoking, chimneyfires burn green as pine trees, then flare out.—from “In Another Life,” Volume 65, . . .
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Seyyed Gholam Hossein Shabdari Kermani was blessed with a clitoris on his right nipple, or at least that was his pickup line. This is a story about him. At the raw age of five, he discovered pleasure while playing with a pink screwdriver in an empty garage, where his balding father and seven potbellied uncles played . . .
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I think you’re still here sometimescalling to me like the thrush at duskinside the woods where I lose my way.I search for you like a ghost myselfin all the usual places, stand on the shorethis side of you and speak to the riverthat flows and stays, stays and flows.—from “This Side of . . .
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Years after it was over and he was gone, I would think of the unfortunate womanhe was living with now and engaged to marry. Poor woman with the face so pale and flat like a slide down a mountain rock. Poor plus-fifty bride-to-be with the voice . . .
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I would have liked to see myself going into the little room at the Café Boscán enraged and pistol in hand looking for his face facing some other face among the tables. He spoke wet, moldy words. I’d have stuck the barrel of the pistol to his forehead and, sublime as he . . .
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